Rachel Callahan

A Television Reality Check.

February 28, 2014April 11, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

So I’m writing this post while sitting on my couch being filmed by my local news.

(You can see that I’m not lying and also how bad my typing comes out when typing on a tiny iPad keyboard if you pay real close attention towards the end of this video…)

So yes, this was the second time I’ve had a news interview about blogging, and yes, I still wince watching myself. This is why I type, not talk.

(But I really need to force myself to start vlogging just to get better about the EYE CONTACT thing. And the talking too fast.)

But nevermind my awkwardness. Y’all already knew about that character trait already, right?

I’m here to address the fictional aspect of television.

We all already know that reality shows are the least realityish reality ever concocted. And I felt compelled to admit that I too, when seen on tv, am totally not living my own reality.

MY TELEVISION HOUSE: There are a few toys behind me on the couch. You might catch a glimpse of an old baby gate that hasn’t been pulled out of the corner for two years and that I forgot to fold up my blanket before shoving it under the end table, but for the most part, it was somewhat clutter-free.

MY REAL HOUSE: Multiply the toys strewn about by a factor of 9,864. The ones you did see were the evidence of Noah’s Last Stand, because I’d already cleaned, re-cleaned, and re-re-cleaned his messes. The boy is a strowing genius. Also, the pillows would be thrown all over the room, my blankets would be strewn about the couch (I like being warm and that’s why I live in Alabama), and at least three sippy cups would be peeking out from various locations under the furniture. Also, our train table, at which you saw Noah playing, is usually stacked at least three feet higher with crap.

MY TELEVISION FLOOR: It actually looked nearly clean-ish.

MY REAL FLOOR: Contains crumbs from yesterday’s cookie, a stray half-eaten apple, eighteen invisible Legos waiting to eat your toe skin for breakfast, fifty-seven Hot Wheels, five abandoned craft projects, and at least a week’s worth of un-swept miscellaneous build-up.

MY TELEVISION NOAH: He’s cute. Right? Blue eyes, carrying around a giant fire truck…stinking adorable.

MY REAL NOAH: His nose is stuffed with crusty boogers and his upper lip is sporting a snail trail (see Monday’s post for why), he has a perma-stache of goo from his last meal hanging out on his upper lip,

and no. He would NEVER be wearing actual clothes at this time of the morning.

A pajama shirt would be a miracle.

MY TELEVISION ALI: She’s focused, interested, and most importantly, wearing non-slept-in clothes.

MY REAL ALI: She does school every day in mismatched pajamas. When getting ready that morning, it took her at least five minutes to understand the concept behind why she had to get dressed when we weren’t even leaving our house. The news crew surely wouldn’t mind her Disney Princess Pajama Top and Dancing Ballerina pajama bottoms. Right?? Also, she would normally be wearing her “craft apron” over her pajamas (yes she has a craft apron don’t you?),

as well as three pairs of socks stacked one atop the other. Or just two socks, but they’d definitely be mismatched. Making a statement with footwear is very important to her.

MY TELEVISION SCHOOLROOM: We had our schoolbooks, Noah’s Legos, my coffee cup, and my planner on the dining room table.

MY REAL SCHOOLROOM: Yes, we do actually do almost all of our school at the dining room table (except that which I can get away with while laying on the couch.) HOWEVER, my table has never looked that neat in its life. It would normally contain at least 763 toys that Noah had brought in to play with while wriggling uncontrollably in my lap, food from the fridge that he’d helped himself to, remnants of a glitter glue deal gone bad, five pages of stickers, two coloring books, a dead ladybug or two, and my coffee cup wouldn’t even look that good. YES. I EVEN WIPED MY LIPSTICK MARKS OFF MY COFFEE CUP. Because I can never just have one spot from which I drink – so I end up with a lovely red bunting all the way around the mug.

Also? This cabinet would usually be open, just waiting for Noah to dump it all out again.

Sad, sad cabinet.

MY TELEVISION SELF: Okay yeah I talk awkward on camera. But at least I had makeup on, blow-dried hair, and was wearing actual clothes.

MY REAL SELF: I would absolutely still have pajamas on – most likely on the third day of those particular pajamas, and they would definitely have remnants of Noah’s sticky grip. I actually wouldn’t have lipstick bunting on my coffee cup because I wouldn’t have a molecule of makeup on. Okay yes I would – I would have dark circles under my eyes left over from yesterday’s makeup. My hair would probably still be wet or worse, an oily mess, and definitely not brushed.

OUR TELEVISION INTERACTIONS: The children were calm, happy, not at all frustrated, and downright adorable. Can I say that? Because when I compare them to…

OUR REAL INTERACTIONS: After I drag her out of bed and down to breakfast and to the school table,

Ali’s distracted by something out the window, I’m trying to explain how to do her math problem, Noah is repeating in a constantly rising decibel level, “Open it Mommy, open it Mommy, OPEN IT MOMMY, OPEN IT MOMMY!!”, Ali’s getting frustrated because she doesn’t understand what I’m saying because she’s distracted by something out the window, I’m frustrated because I can’t get her to pay attention to what’s going on or get Noah to please be quiet about the glue stick that he doesn’t need opened anyway, and then he figures out how to open it himself and before I can stop him and rubs glue all over my cheek. And then I put myself in Mommy Time-Out.

aka the bathroom.

So that’s how it really goes down around here.

Just in case you wondered.

P.S. – I’ll be back on the news in the 4pm hour on Monday (pre-recorded) and in the 9am hour on Wednesday (live) on ABC 33/40 (they have LiveStream for those of you not from around here) to talk about a brand new project I’ve been working on for a couple of months. But no worries – you’ll hear about it first thing Monday morning.

A Journey Update

February 27, 2014August 12, 2015 Rachel Callahan Dad, Guest Post, On a more serious note. . ., Thoughts about Faith

This is a guest post by my Dad. His prior guest posts can all be found here.

A year and a half ago, Rachel related the diagnosis of my cancer. I was stunned and deeply appreciative of all of the comments, concerns and prayers that her readers expressed. This week, when Rachel asked for a guest post (she didn’t ask me, by the way, she asked her mother to ask me!?!), I thought it might be time to update everyone on the progress of the journey.

First though, I think you should know the miraculous way in which the cancer was discovered. On a Thursday night, I woke up with bright flashes of light, almost stroboscopic, with my eyes closed. It continued even with my eyes open for several hours. I obviously didn’t know what was going on, and was concerned enough to go to the local paramedics Friday morning, thinking I might be having a stroke. They could find nothing wrong, but suggested I go to the emergency room. When I asked why, they responded that they suggest that to everyone who has symptoms they couldn’t explain.

Instead of going to the hospital, I decided to go directly to my family doctor. He was out of town, but I was examined by his partner who said that the flashes were an indication of migraine headaches. The flashes had stopped by this point, so I went on about my business and dismissed it altogether. Saturday, the area around my left eye began to swell and become irritated. By Monday, I was unable to open the eye, and when my wife pried it open, she said I had water blisters on my eyeball. OK, time to get serious and try to find out just what was going on.

We went to Sara’s ophthalmologist, a new experience for me since I have always been blessed with 20/20 vision. Her doctor said that I had a detached retina and sent me down the hall to a retina specialist.

That specialist was not in the office, so I was to see a new doctor that had just arrived the past week.

Great.

Not only was the doctor new to the practice, he was very young – disturbingly young.

After a long exam, and lots of lights shined into my eyes from every conceivable angle, he told me that I had a melanoma on one of the layers of my retina. It turned out that he had just finished a two year fellowship in Memphis with one of the four doctors in the country that specialize in this particular cancer. He had seen hundreds of these, but no one else in the office had ever seen a single one.

“How fast can you get to Memphis?”

Sonar, photos and more exams took place in Memphis and the diagnosis was confirmed. All of the swelling and water blisters disappeared, and were never explained or connected to the cancer.

The doctor in Memphis suggested a treatment, one that he performed on three patients a week. We set a time for the surgery, a time that allowed Sara and I to complete our planned 40 year anniversary “Lap of Alabama.”

The treatment consisted of stitching a nickel sized receptacle containing 13 radioactive seeds to the back surface of my eye. A lead patch was placed over the front of my eye and the whole assembly was left in place for a week.

During that week, we were required to stay in Memphis and certainly not allowed to cross state lines – because Homeland Security could track the radioactivity of my eyeball.

After a week, the “plaque” was removed and I was allowed to return home.

In the 15 months since the surgery, follow up exams have shown that the tumor is shrinking, and that there is no sign that it has spread anywhere else in my body. They tell me that if it intended to spread, it would already be in my blood and could spread to my liver or lungs. I have now had enough CAT scans and x-rays at the VA to give me cancer, but so far, all is good.

I even still have 20/20 vision.

Although some people might call this a “scare”, I don’t think I was ever scared. I have seen miracles. I continue to see miracles. Sight itself is a miracle. My blue eyed (as well as my brown eyed) grandchildren are miracles.

Although it may be a cliché, this experience has made me see more clearly what is important in my life. I have realized my own mortality, and that there are things I need to accomplish – to finish in the time I have left. I have been able to focus better on family relationships and friendships. I realize how blessed I am health wise, brought home more clearly whenever I see some of the less fortunate at the VA hospital. I also know (though I don’t fully understand) that God, the creator of the universe, cares for even me.

The journey continues.

Gifts to Characters on Downton Abbey.

February 25, 2014January 22, 2019 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Downton Abbey

Warning: Spoilers Ahead.

So you’ve all now finished watching Season Four of Downton Abbey.

(Except those of you who are still letting it sit on your DVR, risking at every moment the finale being bumped off for one more episode of Jake and the Neverland Pirates. I hope you’re duly nervous about this very real possibility.)

(And except for those of you who are still Downton Abbey holdouts, never having watched a single episode. More power to you.)

I finished hacking watching Downton Abbey with England a couple of days after Christmas, but I will admit that I skipped two, maybe three episodes of this season, and have yet to go back and watch them.

Because…can we all agree that the overarching feeling of foreboding makes the show less enjoyable? Now that we know they will kill main characters mercilessly (and, in Matthew’s case, in a ridiculously written manner,) we must live with the constant fear that they could kill again at any moment.

If I could fund a Kickstarter campaign to pay for the Dowager Countess to live forever, I’d donate twice a month.

So, although I usually wrap up the season with a uselessly explanatory graphic like this one,

or this one,

I decided that this year I would try something new to help fix the issue of our forebodings. I am leaving a reverse Last Will and Testament, where I can pay it backwards to the characters on Downton Abbey. Because I believe that giving one item from the future to each character could solve all of their problems.

(Because it’s so Utopian in our here and now and all.)

Herein lies my bequeathing.

To Edith and Mr. Gregson, I would like to gift you jointly with the “Find My Friends” App. This will solve everything for you – except for when the satellite gets a little off-kilter and makes it look like your man is in the middle of the woods doing a drug deal or worse. But no worries – just refresh. You’ll find him where he’s supposed to be.

To Mary, I send you back an entire Titanic-full of sunblock. Because no, we’ve never seen you burn, but I cut holes in the couch with my fingernails every episode just knowing that it’s bound to happen soon – especially now that you’re into pig farming.

To Lord Robert Grantham, I give you my financial advisor. It’s okay not to have a head for finances, Bob. Can I call you Bob? As long as you have someone with which to have a quiet conversation. And to tell you that you’re INSANE to invest in the Railways. Instead, maybe read up on The Wright Brothers.

To Matthew, I bequeath air bags. You’re welcome.

To Thomas, I leave you World of Warcraft. Because you clearly need something all-encompassing in which you can relieve all of your competitive, strategic, conspiratorial tendencies. You’ll be a better person to have this outlet – I promise.

To Cora, I leave heart medicine. Not for you to take – for Pamuk. Because no Mom should have to help her daughter carry a full-grown dead man through a castle.

To Violet, the dearest Dowager Countess, I bequeath you nothing. Because you don’t need my help to carry out any plan, and we all know you wouldn’t use anything from that blasted future anyway.

To Branson, I bequeath the knowledge that socialism isn’t so great. So relax and enjoy the big house, dear sir. Oh – and don’t talk to the maids. It makes me nervous.

To Anna, I bequeath mace. Or a pink gun. Or perhaps a tazer. Or all three.

To Carson, I give you a wine decanter. Those dirty wash cloths you’ve been using make me gag a little every time.

To Mrs. Patmore, I bequeath Paxil. Soufflés are a lot easier not to ruin if you can calm the flip down.

To Mrs. Hughes, I bequeath a flight to The Caymans. You’ve spent eleven years counseling every member of that household – you deserve a vacation.

To Isobel, I bequeath a blog. You need somewhere to share your passionate positions with the world, and I can envision you pounding your keyboard with a ferocity that rivals Perez Hilton.

To Bates, you don’t need anything. You are a man that GETS. IT. DONE.

What would you send back in time for these characters?

Taking Issue With the Compliance Department.

February 24, 2014February 23, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Boy Child = Bizarre., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Parent of the Year, Toddlers: The Experience

Dear Noah,

We took a break from our potty-training failures so that I could take you to the dentist last week. It was only your second trip ever, and your first time to get x-rays.

And you were an angel.

I need you to know that I am not okay with this.

First of all, let’s talk about getting up onto the table and laying down.

Have you ever laid down on command when I’ve asked you to?

No.

And certainly not when I needed to perform some sort of function. I mean seriously. You will fight harder and longer than Reepicheep himself when I simply need to remove a giant nasal-blocking booger hanging halfway down your upper lip. But you’re going to hop up on the bed for a masked stranger, happily open your mouth, and allow her to poke your teeth with a sharp metal hook while you act like nothing peculiar is happening at all?

Really.

Really???

You’ve never willingly opened your mouth for me even when I offered you some delectable treat. Yet you’re going to lay there on that table, happily agape even when she has her back to you, acting as if you’re the most perfectly submissive and joyfully obedient child on the planet.

You do realize that it took your extraordinarily compliant sister three failed visits and TWO YEARS to even open her mouth at the Dentist’s Office, right?

But you know what she DID do, without hesitation or fight?

SHE POTTY-TRAINED. When I asked her to.

Sure, she had a natural fear of being gagged by the spit spray and sucked up by the saliva vacuum – that’s perfectly reasonable. But she didn’t mind peeing in the correct receptacle.

Novel idea.

But you. YOU.

You don’t mind the dentist at all.

The hygienist asked you what flavor toothpaste you wanted, and you simply PICKED A FLAVOR and then – THEN – you were happy with your choice!

I try to get you to taste a new dessert and you scream like a pig. Then I force a bite into your mouth and you gag it back up onto my shirt without even tasting it.

(Seriously – just in the past month – Snow cream and Fruit Crisp. Remember those?)

And we won’t even discuss vegetables. Or casseroles. Or soup. Or meat other than chicken fingers.

You happily acquiesced when they sat you on a stool way too high for your feet to touch the ground and enswathed you in a ridiculously heavy cape (“I’m Batman!!”, you exclaimed) – you were so totally okay with the whole thing, despite the fact that the faux lead turtleneck was certainly cutting off your airway.

But I try to sit you on a toilet where your feet do reach the ground and remove clothes rather than put heavier ones on and what do you do?

Why not be Batman then?

Because I can guarantee you one thing. BATMAN DOESN’T WEAR A DIAPER.

Okay. He kinda does. But I’m sure that’s only because of the intensity of his adventures.

And then she shoves a giant plastic rectangle the size of your ear into your mouth while holding your head in place. And what do you do?

You let her. Quietly and with perfect poise.

YOU CAN BE CHOKING AND TURNING PURPLE BUT IF I TRY TO STICK MY FINGERS IN YOUR MOUTH TO SAVE YOUR LIFE YOU BITE ME WITH THE FEROCITY OF A HUNDRED SHARKS.

Then the Dentist came in and poked at your teeth again. While you had sparkles in your eyes and dimples on your cheeks.

I try to trim your toenails and you turn into a Wildebeest. And my hands end up looking like I’ve been attacked by ten feral cats.

I’m pretty sure the Dentist could have given you open heart surgery without as much as a teaspoon of Children’s Tylenol and you would have still acted like the most precious angel that ever did live.

I just try to get you to take Children’s Tylenol and I end up with a backache.

So. Can we trade dental serenity for potty-training compliance?

Because you only have to go to the dentist two times a year, but you have to pee six times a day.

(I’m not even asking for poop right now. I’m a reasonable person.)

Also? I just want to remind you that I let my doctor cut you out of my abdomen. The dentist has only even met you twice.

Gimme a break.

Sincerely,

Your Loving Mother.

p.s. I need you to know that if you don’t take me up on the trade, I might consider leaving you on the Dental doorstep. Because they make you a better person.

McQueen Will Get Us Through It.

February 21, 2014February 20, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Boy Child = Bizarre., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Toddlers: The Experience

I have two problems with potty-training Noah.

No, three.

One. Noah doesn’t want to. That’s kind of a biggie. You can not force bodily fluids out of a kid that doesn’t want to play along.

Two. Last time we tried (in August,) Noah had a crippling fear of letting any output from his body fall into the toilet. Remember this picture? I know all his grandparents do. And they haven’t forgiven me yet.

(He didn’t poop anywhere for 21 days after that photo. Trauma coupled with determination is a heinous tragedy.)

Three. Noah doesn’t understand when he pees. He has no concept of the fact that liquid is seeping out of his body and even better, that he can control it.

Okay, four.

Four. Diapers are so much easier than living through potty-training.

Seriously. They are.

But, the kid is three-and-two-months now. He must learn to crap like a normal human being or I will begin to look like a crappy mom.

Therein lies the rub.

So on Tuesday, I decided it was time to try again.

I was hesitant, so I tip-toed into the subject with Noah.

“We’re not going to wear diapers today….”

“What?? WHY????”

But I had him at Lightning Underwear.

Thank God Pampers doesn’t have a Cars line, because I’m pretty sure that having a McQueened-out butt is the only perk Noah would consider as valid for inserting his urine into a toilet.

We put the underwear on, talked about sitting on the potty, he reminded me that he didn’t know how to tee-tee, and we set off into our day, armed with Road & Track Magazines provided by my Dad, a Bumbo potty-training seat and stepstool, and a singing commode.

And, for the entire morning, he and I tromped off to the bathroom every fifteen minutes to try and conjure up some liquid gold.

The first time he peed on Lightning, I admit that I was excited for him – at least now he knows what it feels like to pee, right?

No.

He didn’t like the feeling of having peed, but still showed no signs of knowing how to conjure the stuff.

And the novelty of trying didn’t take too long to wear off. Three pairs of underwear later, I could hear his eyes screaming at me, ”Gretchen, stop trying to make pee happen. It’s never going to happen!”

It was at that point that I requested of Twitter and Facebook to wear light yellow ribbons in solidarity with us for Noah’s Pee Awareness Week.

And Karen won reader of the year by actually doing it (and getting a picture before her toddler ripped it off, who presumably stands with Noah.)

If only Karen’s awareness of our plight had helped.

But it didn’t.

A few minutes later while Ali and I were doing school, Noah ran in and announced cheerily,

“I’m all done!!!”

“With what?”

“Potty Training!!!”

“Uh….no.”

Finally, shortly before naptime which would bring a blessed reprieve back to lined underthings, Noah managed to squeeze out a couple of drops – enough to make his potty sing.

And sing and sing and sing. And sing.

I mean seriously I’ve never seen a john so relieved to receive a deposit. The stupid thing wouldn’t quit singing. I actually suspected that the commode was so desperate for him to get up that it squeezed its own molecules tightly enough to rouse the minimum liquid required to create a musical reaction.

Despite the clearly accidental amount of whatever-it-was, we still celebrated heartily, Noah received the promised Dusty Crophopper that had been sitting in my closet for six months, and we moved on, hoping for a more notable output next time.

He happily welcomed his diaper back for naptime and the following cross-town trip to take Ali to art class.

While we were out, he looked up at me and said, “You put me in a diaper, right?”

“Yup.”

He sighed and loudly passed gas. Because one can never be too careful with these things.

The next day we began again, with high hopes of having more than .00000000001 ounces of success this time.

But alas. His excitement had departed when he had been happily enswathed in waterproof fibers.

He had caught on to the concept of holding his pee – for a solid three hours, he clenched himself with all his sphincter’s might, whether on or off the toilet, desperately refusing to either soil his underwear or Let it Go where he should, no matter how many times I serenaded him with the Frozen hit.

I realized a couple of hours into the day that he had a bright red circle on his butt compliments of the singing toilet, so we transferred our efforts to the luxurious Bumbo to rest his weary chaps.

It helped on the comfort front, but he continued his clinching.

We talked it through.

We prayed. But I’m pretty sure God responded with “I don’t do potty-training.”

I told Noah how much better he’d feel if he’d let go.

He told me his tee-tee was hurting.

No duh.

I told him to just GO, for frick’s sake.

He said he was scared.

I begged.

He screamed.

I sang.

He violently shook his head and pushed me away.

We watched YouTube videos of other kids singing about the toilet.

We even watched YouTube videos of other moms reading potty books to other kids, because that’s the kind of meta life we live.

But we had no measurable or immeasurable results.

We spent at least an hour and a half between those two toilets without a drop to assign as victory.

And then, at 11:30 am, he left the bathroom and immediately filled his pants-leg with urine.

And then, at 11:55 am, he did the exact same thing again.

And then, at 11:56 am, I tried not to cry.

But then, at 11:59 am, I caught him admiring his underweared rear view in the mirror, which renewed my hope to live another day.

Because if anyone’s going to get us through this, it’s Lightning McQueen.

Inside the Mind of a First Grader.

February 19, 2014February 18, 2014 Rachel Callahan Ali Blogs, Guest Post, Kids: The Experience.

Ali is guest-posting for me today.

(Yes, there are two bows plus arrows in her apron. If you want to complain, I wouldn’t.)

Anyway. Here are some literary masterpieces that I’ve found lying around the house lately that she’s graciously allowed me to share.

One day two lite’s played.
Anathor lite came and toled them to be friendly and come togethor.
They did not want to and the other lite left.
2 years later….
They becam friends!
The End.

That totally should have been a Beatles verse.

Speaking of song lyrics, they’re often inexplicably documented at our house.

It’s a brand new days in rorsvil
The flawrs smel swit and her comes a monster you rele wont to mete.
His name is Henry and as you can see
He’s got a rili rorsom famole.
Hay hay hay have a henry hugl monster day
Hay hay hay have a henry hugl monster day
Wen thengs or going rolng and everytheng sems gray
Henry huglmonsteor can olways find a way
Hay hay hay have a Henry Hugl Monstor Day!

I think the basic idea is that when it hasn’t been your day or week or even your year, Henry Hugglemonster’ll be there. For you.

She heard this song one time, in a Christmas production, and hasn’t stopped singing it yet.

Welcoe to the place I will sing my song
I can-not wat to sing it to you
O no I cant wat to sing my song here it
comes
Holy, Holy, Holy,
God is coming ner
Onto us a saveyer is born
On a midnite clear
Holy holy holy
God is coming ner
Onto us a savyors born
On a midnite clear
Ho-ly Ho-ly Ho-ly
God is coming ner
Onto us a savyor is born
On a midnit clear.
The End…

…And just when you think it’s over, you turn over the page…

This math answer, considering the information given, makes complete sense.

Did they ask “how many weeks of the year”? No. They said how many weeks. We’d need to know the exact age of the earth and the dates of any climatological events that might have changed Norway’s sun situation to answer this inane question.

Other great school finds recently have included this cheery reading passage:

(This turns out to be “good news” because the sailor had been making fun of them…clearly the author’s gift wasn’t mercy.)

We also found this fantastic moral reminder, which I hope Ali remembers when she starts dating.

Sometimes we all need the opportunity to make a confession. Ali finds that writing hers is most effective.

I droped a tamato on my dress on purpus
And then siad: What am I doing?
Then jest cepe watching TV.
Name: Ali Callahan Age: 7
Favorite Color: Pink

I have no idea why her favorite color needed to be brought into that crime, but I’m sure she does.

I got sick in November with laryngitis and stayed sick with a various concoction of bugs until the end of January. I could tell that Ali thought I was dying, because she would give me these sad little hugs and leave lots of loving notes (illustrated with sunsets) laying around for me to find.

This was my favorite.

Dear Mommy
I love you sooooo
ooo much I like dowing craft’s
with you and you roeding wimey kid
I hope you get beter
love Ali

The disturbing part of the note was the missing “soon” after “I hope you get better.”

Then again, I guess it’s best to set one’s expectations low.

On to another story.

Ons apan a time a fiary went to see here friend’s
They herd a suond
it was a monster!
They ran and ran and ran and ran
Tile tha lost him.
The End.

Sometimes a simple story is best.

Other times, it’s better to get the long-term picture.

One’s apan a time a lake was with no island
Suddunly a tiny tiny island startid to form
It grew biger and bigger
tile it was big anaf to billd 10 ten houses
pepole ol over the world started to liv thare and bilding housis
The…..

I love a good cliffhanger.

No, no I don’t. I need closure.

END. It’s THE END.

Pitfall, The Shopping Edition.

February 17, 2014February 16, 2014 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, HauteLook, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend, Weird Strange and True

I have a horrible confession.

I’ve been cheating on Zulily.

Not only have I been cheating on Zulily, but I’ve completely abandoned my daily Zulily Browsing, which means no more Weird Strange and True posts for you.

However, I’ve replaced her with a new App Mistress: HauteLook.

This exposes a growing selfishness in my heart, because where my Zulily purchases were mostly centered on the children, HauteLook is for me…all for me. They are the new supplier for my Denim Addiction, outfitted me singlehandedly for Fall and Winter, and have tempted me into buying more cute dresses than I’ll ever need.

But although they have fantastic deals and fabulous clothes, they also have some Zulily-esque finds as well. And, since they’re run by Nordstrom, their odder items are, at times, puzzlingly expensive.

So. Let’s get started.

I know firsthand how unflattering large-scale Houndstooth can be. Thanks to HauteLook, the world now knows that adding lime green to it does not fix the problem.

Also. Can we call it a “track short” if its accompanying adjectives are “leather and silk”? Then again, Elle Woods would have needed something to wear during PhysEd.

However. A Leather and Silk Track Short is infinitely more attractive, practical, and non-Cameltoe-inducing than….these.

Cable Knit has never been treated so wretchedly, not even by The Cosby family.

There’s nothing that sets off a Giorgio Armani Sweater like Mom Trousers. Mom Trousers from 1988. Mom Trousers from 1988 that are five sizes too large.

Mom Trousers from 1988 that are five sizes too large and two inches too short.

If you told me that model didn’t punch a wall after that particular photo was shot, I wouldn’t believe you.

Fortunately, they have non-mom options. You might remember these from my Christmas Post, but they’re so special they really deserve to be mentioned again.

Because I might have had nightmares about that Giant Golden Indiana Jones Beetle snapping at my crotch. And now you can, too.

But if you prefer your jeans to have more of a human touch, then this is the pair for you.

I’m pretty sure they both answer to “Thigh Gap Police.”

Speaking of Thigh Gap, I feel like I should start a petition for HauteLook to feed their models. Because either this one has an Alien Baby about to disembark or there’s a stray rib cutting a hole in that dress.

And I’m pretty sure it’d take a diet of strained Kale and 20 Jillian Shreds a day to give me…is that a two-pack? But one thing is for certain. If that dress so prominently displays her abs…what it would do to mine would be considered illegal in 27 states.

And this dress, despite the fact that her ribs are supporting the star, still makes her look like she has a baby belly. Which means it’d make me look at least 15 months pregnant.

I do not need that in my life.

Sometimes HauteLook really tries to help a trend happen that should not happen. The Maxi Sweater is one of those trends.

Let’s be honest and call it a backwards Snuggie, pretty please?

Another trend they’ve tried to champion is the tucked skirt. Thankfully, their own evidence proves why it should never be.

Keep in mind that all of these models have a twenty-nothing inch waist and haven’t eaten a hamburger since Pre-K.

The Number One CRUCIAL rule to online shopping is, “If they can’t pull it off, then I can’t pull it off.”

The Number Two CRUCIAL rule is “Just because they can pull it off doesn’t mean I should try.”

And, of course, the Number Three CRUCIAL rule is “Leggings are NEVER pants.”

Cover your crotch, ladies. Cover. Your. Crotch.

While we’re on the subject, let’s talk about a couple lesser rules.

Fur does not belong in our hair.

Men should not wear Tiger Print when it looks like a confused school of herring.

Adidas should stick to what it does best. Or buy an iron.

Your shoes should not be capable of unintentional manslaughter.

And finally, your bra case should never be cuter than your suitcase.

I hope we’ve all learned something today.

Ten Steps to a Southern Snowfall.

February 13, 2014February 13, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Kids: The Experience., Southern Dictionary, The Blissfulness of Life

The unfathomable has happened.

We The People of Alabama have gotten two measurable snowfalls in the same winter.

I’ve always said that I want to experience one True Northern Snowstorm, but I also believe that every one of you northerners should absolutely experience one True Southern Snowstorm.

Because Southerners react to snow with a fantastic mixture of awe and hilarity.

I already told you how it goes down if we don’t know it’s coming. But when we do know it’s coming, it’s a completely different event.

Here are the steps to a True Southern Snowstorm.

1. 72 Hours Beforehand: It looks as if there might be snow!!!! Perhaps even two snow events back to back!!!!!!! All news anchors and meteorologists bring their sleeping bags to the studio, and the Governor goes ahead and declares a State of Emergency while it’s still warm out – just in case he’s unable to get to his Easy Button when we need him.

2. Forget school for the rest of the week, as well as medical care (except emergencies), eating out (except Waffle House), and any Church or social functions. We didn’t get snow until Wednesday night, but I didn’t leave the house from Sunday to Thursday – because there was nothing to do.

3. Wait expectantly for 48 hours, kids home from school and playing outside in the mild but snowless weather.

Finally, snow starts falling, resulting in wall-to-wall news coverage, weather radios blaring out warnings, families quickly bundling into their waiting snow gear, and general ecstatic hysteria.

“The snow is deep enough to leave FOOTPRINTS!!!”

4. Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter feeds immediately multiply to hundredfold of their normal rate, vomiting photos of measuring tapes and rulers in the snow (some up to the four inch mark!!), deck furniture coated in white, trees covered in snow, and children with looks of ecstasy that could only be justified by Publisher’s Clearinghouse showing up at their door.

Okay, parents too.

5. News anchors fill up their continuous coverage (sometimes even forgoing commercial breaks due to the urgent nature of their information) excitedly switching between camera views of cities throughout the state and viewer photos of snowmen, snow angels, and bikini-clad women and shirtless men* laying in the snow.

(*Bikini-Clad Women and Shirtless Men are always in separate photographs, obviously. This is The South, after all.)

6. As the snow keeps falling, the news anchors begin using statements such as,

“Look at the football field in Slap Out, Alabama! It must have an inch of snow covering it by now. That looks more like Lambeau Field in Green Bay than a High School in Alabama!”

and,

“Can you believe these pictures? I’d think they were taken in Antarctica if I didn’t know better!”

and,

“I think we can expect a penguin to waddle through this LiveCam shot any minute.”

and,

“The Mayor has announced that he will put in a bid for the 2026 Winter Olympics!”

4. If it happens to snow at night, you either let your children stay up late or wake them up in the middle of the night to play in it, taking photos of adorable midnight snowmen.

7. After finally making the kids go to bed, parents stay up way too late, romantically gazing at the magical white ground covering.

And then they wake up super early and drag the kids out to play in the snow before it melts.

8. Southern Snow Play includes a frenzy of activity of every type of snow activity we’ve ever seen on television. In less than one hour, we can make a snowman, have a snowball fight, sled, make snow angels, have snow cream, walk around the neighborhood, take dazzling photos of the white magic, and in general feel like our life goals have been met.

Did I mention what expert sledders we are in the south?

Yes, that sled is being pulled by an extension cord. Isn’t that normal?

9. Before lunchtime, it goes back to fifty degrees and our snow melts away, leaving barely a trace of evidence of that which shut down our entire state for nearly a week.

10. Within 48 hours, we’re back at seventy degrees.

And all we have left are the memories. And the fifteen hundred photos. And the piles of laundry. And, if we had the forethought to build in the shade, a mostly melted, dirty, sad remnant of a snowman.

But we will never forget.

56,000 Selfies: The Tale of a Capsule Endoscopy.

February 12, 2014February 11, 2014 Rachel Callahan Dysautonomia, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Weird Strange and True

I like to stay on the cutting edge of technology, but I swallowed a camera because my doctor told me to.

Also. I would like to clarify that my pinkie is not that crooked in real life. I caught it in the middle of a yoga move preparing to play its part in shoving a giant flashing pill down my throat after having had nothing to drink for seven hours.

Did I not mention that it was flashing?

Of course it was flashing.

Unfortunately, it did not flash brightly enough to be seen through my abdomen in a dark closet. Or under the covers. Which really was a true disappointment for both me and the children.

(Okay. And Chris. But don’t tell him I told you.)

But first.

The Prep.

Wait – No. Do we really need to go through the specifics of The Prep again?

Probably not, as I’m sure the last trauma of my bowels is still freshly seared into your mind.

But as a quick aside, never believe a nurse that tells you a prep will “only” be a mini prep.

No prep is a mini prep.

My non-mini-prep consisted of a few pills and this, which was basically an entire bottle of sourer-than-Janet-Reno Flavored Alka-Seltzer.

Lemon FLAVOR doesn’t begin to describe it.

Essence of Lemon, maybe.

Concentrated Lemon Grease, possibly.

But not lemon flavor.

The next morning I got up early and drove to the Gastroenterologist’s office, where I was alone without even so much as a receptionist, so I had ample time to admire the fine artwork in the waiting room.

They were all too happy.

All except one.

And I suddenly wished my doctor were the un-amused one. Because these doctors see things that no one should have to see. You want them to be un-amused. You NEED them to be un-amused.

After several moments of quiet reflection on the proper joviality level of a Gastroenterologist, the nurse retrieved me.

She took me to a room and presented me with The Magic Bullet,

And then holstered me with The World’s Ugliest Purse and a Circa 1992 Sam’s Wholesale Club Employee Back Brace, which she tightened around my tender abdomen (thanks, Mini Prep) until I told her I could no longer breathe.

The fashion-forward belt received the photographic transmissions from the pill (2 per second, up to 56,000 for the day), and then it transferred them through a Dot Matrix Printer Cord to the purse, which was carrying a 1990 Prodigy Dial-Up modem.

I was staring at the Antiquated thick metal modem-looking device, thinking that surely they could reduce the size to a USB drive…and modernize the lines…and get rid of the Original-Dr.-Who-ish blinky lights, when the nurse said,

“Isn’t this amazing? This is like…Jetson’s technology to me. I have no idea how they do this.”

Clearly she doesn’t use Twitter.

Then she gave me her highly technologically advanced copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of my diet instructions for the day.

Which, by the way, I totally cheated on. Because I swallowed that pill at 8am, and her copy of a copy of a copy of a copy made no allowances for early swallowing.

(And for the record, she was clear that those slashes between food items were ORs, not ANDs. I went with the soup.)

Notice that there’s no time stamp next to Capsule Excretion (which I’m assuming is the “unusual sensation.”) I didn’t push her on it, but I’m sure if Sheldon ever needs a Capsule Endoscopy, he would require a time to perform that last action.

I dutifully wore my accessories all day, watched the blinking lights like a good girl (if they stopped blinking or blinked differently or changed color I was to return immediately before my viscera exploded,) then turned in the bling (minus the capsule) that afternoon.

I mourned for my pet camera, floating along the lazy river of my intestines, still taking photos and shooting them out into the big, bad world beyond my belly fat where nobody was catching them any longer.

Flashing, flashing, hopelessly flashing.

Chris suggested, “You should hold your phone up to your stomach and see if you can pick up its wi-fi.”

I did.

And sure enough, my phone found a secure wi-fi connection I’ve never seen before.

My first thought was how ridiculously spoiled my intestinal bacteria was (or bacterium, all that was left after my mini prep) – he had his own wi-fi!! There aren’t many amoeba that can boast of such amenities.

But later, I questioned myself. Maybe it was a random passerby’s wi-fi. Or a new neighbor. Surely my belly wasn’t broadcasting that obviously.

But if it was, I rue the NSA agent that managed to catch the rest of those images.

And as for the current location of the capsule, I honestly have no idea. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.

Road Tripping North Alabama.

February 10, 2014November 14, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Gorham's Bluff, I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend, The Blissfulness of Life

Up until a few years ago, I can say with certainty that I was a beach girl. I really didn’t have any interest in the mountains, always preferring to drift warmwards rather than coldwards, and in complete adoration with the ocean.

I believe, if I remember correctly, that it was the fault of The General Woods Inn that I became a Mountain Person.

And also childbirth. Because having children makes one want to become a motionless slug when one gets away for the weekend, and being a motionless slug is made better by having beautiful mountains upon which to set one’s gaze.

Fortunately for me, Birmingham is a fantastic place to live because it caters to both – drive two hours and be in the mountains, or drive four hours and be at the Gulf. And, being a newborn Mountain Person, I am continually surprised to find out how very many things our North Alabama mountains have to offer.

Between being sick and having a typically busy birthday-holiday-birthday season, I was seriously craving mountains, and had become a regular pestilence to Chris, begging him to take me away.

He vaguely put me off, then surprised me on Christmas Eve with the gift of a trip, already planned out and booked, to two of my favorite North Alabama spots: Gorham’s Bluff and Unclaimed Baggage. Fun shopping and fantastic relaxation all in one trip that I didn’t even have to plan: he’s a keeper.

Our trip was scheduled for January, right after we survived the last bit of holiday madness.

Weathington Park is where we got our first taste of the stunning solace that the northern portion of our state has to offer.

But it was freaking windy on that hillside, so we hurried across the bridge to our first indoor destination: the fantastic, the incomparable Unclaimed Baggage.

This was Chris’ first experience there, so he went on a blue streak of shopping.

No really – he bought a dozen blue garments (he put back the one green one.)

I bought a few shirts and a sweater dress, but I really found myself glued to the jewelry counter.

No, I didn’t buy the most colossal ring I’d ever tried on (it even felt like it was engineered for a Giantess), but I did get several necklaces that were on sale for half off.

And then I couldn’t help myself.

I was magnetically drawn to the international section again, and this time I didn’t have an upcoming Halloween to blame it on.

I discovered this amazing Kimono(?) that I found highly amusing because it was clearly the Pantone Color of the Year – Radiant Orchid.

I’ve seen more headlines regarding how to wear Radiant Orchid than I ever needed to see, but none of them suggested a nice Kimono.

And they really should have. Because I tried it on when I got home to get pictures in all its radiance, and it was the first thing that ever inspired Noah to look up, gasp, run over, and say, “You’re Beautiful, Mommy!!” Which he promptly followed up with, “I can see the side of your tummy.”

They don’t call it color of the year for nothing.

Back to Unclaimed Baggage. We finished with an insanely inexpensive buggy-full of clothes, jewelry, and shoes, most of them still possessing their original tags (thank you, luggage-losing travelers, for buying clothes while on your trips),

then happily headed back over the bridge, still high on shopping bliss.

Next stop: Sunset at Gorham’s Bluff.

It’s ridiculously convenient that Unclaimed Baggage and Gorham’s Bluff are only 20 minutes apart – it’s as if God meant us to recuperate there regularly. And He rewarded us for following His direction by giving us a beautiful (albeit frigid) sunset, which shone over the chimneys of Gorham’s Bluff and across the valley below.

We ate dinner and breakfast at Gorham’s Bluff, but the meals there are so decadent and intimate that I never take photographs. They come with personalized menus, are served in a quiet dining room containing a roaring fire, and would rival any five-star restaurant on quality and beauty.

After breakfast the next morning, we took a hike along the ridge line. It had just risen above freezing and was about to dip back below for three days, so we hit it at a unique time when the waterfalls were rapidly melting icicles, only to be forced to re-form in a few hours.

And after that, with one more wistful look at the valley, we drove back to reality.

And I’ve returned to my status of being a pestilence, begging Chris to take me back to the mountains. As soon as possible.