Rachel Callahan

Wedding Crashers.

January 20, 2014January 19, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously., Weird Strange and True

This post is supported and endorsed by two wedding planners.

We need to talk about an alarming trend that is spreading like Kardashians and certain to bring doom to our nation if not addressed.

Slovenly Dressed Wedding Photographers.

At the last several weddings I’ve attended, I’ve been horrified by cutoff shorts, yoga pants, t-shirts, holey jeans, and various other completely inappropriate clothing worn by male and female professional photographers who were paid multiple thousands of dollars to photograph the most important event in the life of two people.

Aforementioned wedding planners immediately blacklist photographers such as these. And so should you.

At every wedding, my mind is screaming for Stacy and Clinton to jump out of a bush or a pew or a baptistery and strangle those clickers.

At one of my recent wedding attendances, the photographer was wearing a stained polo shirt that had shrunk to three inches above his waistband (allowing his belly to enjoy the festivities as well), and his well-worn Levi’s crotch was hanging to his knees.

Not the most subtle of photographers (and with no zoom lens on his person), he actually walked backwards down the aisle in front of the bride. Or should I say stooped backwards. In his own disturbing version of the bend and snap, he offered the added service of a full moon to the grandparents on the front row.

I resurrected my mad Draw Something skills for this one, with encouragement from JC Little, who can be found actually drawing at The Animated Woman.

I ran into this photographer again during the reception, where instead of taking photographs, he was sampling the dessert table. I watched as he and his photographer cohorts had the following exchange:

(Slovenly Dressed Head Photographer picks up a Cake Ball.) “What IS this thing?”

“I don’t know, man – some kind of dessert.”

“I can’t tell what’s inside it…” (He pulls it to nose level to sniff and see what lies beneath) “OH – it has a cherry inside! I don’t want that!”

AND HE TOSSED THE CAKE BALL BACK ONTO THE TABLE.

Not onto the plate of un-violated cake balls, thank the Lord above – just onto the beautiful burlap tablecloth – and there it laid, cluttering the lovely setting like a symbol of his contribution to the event.

Okay – so this particular photographer might have some professional issues needing to be addressed other than his attire. But no one can help a Cake Ball Thrower – so let’s just discuss the fashion issue.

1. You are a professional. You are doing your job in front of hundreds of people – people who might even hire you for their upcoming nuptials. Nobody wants to see the top of your Scooby Doo boxers, and especially not what lies beneath.

2. Everyone else at this event is in formal wear. The fact that you are working and not attending does not in any way excuse you from attempting to look like you belong.

3. YOU ARE AT THE FRONT OF THE ALTAR AS THE BRIDE IS TAKING HER MARCH. Don’t ruin her moment of joy by making her look past your bare belly to see her glowing groom!!

Now. Let’s discuss the excuses that you might offer as to why you feel like your slovenly choices are okay.

1. Outdoor weddings in Alabama. I understand – it’s hot here. Really hot. And sticky. However, the bride is wearing fifty pounds of lace and satin and the groom has donned three layers of sun-magnetizing black – I think you can make it in a little more clothing than Daisy Dukes.

2. Bending and stooping. Yes, your job requires flexibility and movement. However, we live in a wonderfully modern world with vast arrays of shockingly comfortable and bendy fabrics that are more formal than your yoga pants covered in cat hair.

3. You’re working, not attending. Although this is true, you are the most visible “employee” of this shindig, other than the pastor himself. And notice that he’s wearing a full suit, pocket triangle and all. Your crotch dragging the ground is really putting a damper on the tears of joy that we all want to be holding back. It is worth looking good while you do a good job.

So brides. If you don’t want your special day soiled by the one person that thinks they’re safe because they won’t be in any photos, then instead of looking at your photographer’s portfolio of wedding photography, request to see pictures of your photographer photographing weddings. If you see butt-crack, run.

And for the record – that cake ball did not have a cherry in it.

Innerspace: The Story of my Colonoscopy.

January 17, 2014July 25, 2014 Rachel Callahan Dysautonomia, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Pop Post

Disclosure: By not closing out your browser window now, you are acknowledging and taking full responsibility for any mental or physical repercussions you may experience from reading the content contained herein.

I’ve never noticed how much the line art in my blog background looks like intestines. Have you?

So I had a colonoscopy and endoscopy Wednesday.

Or, as was listed next to my name on the whiteboard, I had a ↑↓.

Most people were just having a ↓, so I will admit that I felt a little special to have been chosen for a bi-directional procedure.

Because when you’re walking back to receive a pair of “surgical shorts” and a backless gown in order to have countless people see parts of you that you’ve never quite been able to see yourself, you have to take your pride where you can find it.

We all know what a colonoscopy is, but an endoscopy is basically the same thing, but starting in your mouth and ending, based on the soreness I’m still experiencing, somewhere in your stomach.

But let’s back up 36 hours. Because a colonoscopy wins the Kanye “Imma let you finish but this test is one of tha most life-invasive tests of all time” award.

And as such, I found myself, Monday night, at the grocery store having the most unsexy shopping event of my life.

Clear juices…Gatorade in a flavor I didn’t mind hating for the rest of my life…Chicken broth. To eat solo.

I texted Chris.

“Juicing would surely count as a liquid, right?”

“I don’t see why not…”

I bought frozen peaches, grapes, and grapefruit juice. In hindsight (something there was a lot of this week), I’m pretty sure my frozen fruit smoothies did indeed break the rule, as they contained pulp.

But I really don’t give a rat’s…oh nevermind.

I arrived home with my groceries and surveyed with discomfort my diet for the next day.

I was not meant for this.

I was meant for chocolate and marshmallows and cheese. All of which technically could be melted down…

That night, I tossed and turned with apprehension. When I finally did sleep, I dreamed repeatedly of all five My Little Ponies preparing for and receiving colonoscopies. But they were oddly happy about it, prancing around on rainbows…

I’m sure they’ll cover that in Season Four.

The next morning, I woke up to half a dozen helpful signs, lovingly crafted in the wee hours of the morning by my adoring husband.

A little background: it had been bothering Ali that Chris never referred to me as “Rachel”, and she had been interrogating us both for days – as if the future of our marriage relied on it.

“I know you call her Mommy in front of us…but what do you call her when we’re not around?? AND WHAT DID YOU CALL HER BEFORE WE WERE BORN?!?”

“Um, well, I call her babe…or darlin’….things like that.”

“But WHY don’t you ever call her RACHEL!?!?!?”

I think the inclusion of my Christian name on those signs really helped Ali believe in us as a couple.

And they helped me, too – only once did I completely bypass the sign, go into the pantry, grab a snack and almost eat it before I remembered the illegalities of my current state.

I dutifully drank smoothies that morning, and finally busted out the Chicken Broth that afternoon.

And was shocked at how delicious it was.

Followed by immediate depression at the sad, sad statement of my life.

I liquid dieted until 5:30pm, when I began this, which, despite its very misleading name, is disappointingly NOT something that can be substituted for popcorn and Twizzlers.

It’s sitting on Ali’s birthday party tablecloth. I’ll leave it up to your imagination what it was destined for.

MoviPrep consists of four powder packets that are to be mixed into water or Gatorade in two 32 ounce doses, creating A Liquid Which Can’t Be Named.

I chose Arctic Blast to be my first Gatorade I’d never touch again.

When mixed, it looked and tasted like toilet bowl cleaner mixed with urine.

Salty, nauseating, and thick.

Meanwhile, my darling husband, who had been searching the internet for ColonoscopyHacks, was thinking ahead again – perhaps too far this time.

This charger was not used. I repeat. This charger was not used.

He also found this frightening piece of advice.

I do not want to know why she used quotation marks where she did.

At Midnight, I was instructed to drink the other 32 ounces. 32 Ounces which, in my opinion, were wholly unnecessary.

This time, I chose a green flavor. Which was very talented at keeping its color and transparency, I might add.

Surprisingly, it tasted a slight bit better in green, or perhaps I was so dehydrated that actual urine + cleanser would have been a savory treat by then.

——-

D-Day. The lobby was so crowded that I had to share a settee with a woman I didn’t know. And the inhabitants were so old that Chris and I were the only ones looking at our phones – something I assumed only occurred in Nursing Homes and Piccadilly’s.

We got assigned a number, giving us the feeling of false anonymity. It’s not like we didn’t know what each other was there for. We were all about to be invaded in the most terrible of ways, yet relegated to being a number.

I was number eighteen.

And, after hearing the receptionist yell out, “Number Two!! NUMBER TWO!!!”, I couldn’t have been happier with my number.

Because no one should be forced into that number. Not here. Not now. Be human and skip it like the thirteenth floor.

I desperately attempted to maintain my personal space on that institutionally small settee until my number was announced a few years later.

I turned in my phone to Chris and plodded through the first room of ten curtained indignities.

I heard a guy with a SOUTHERN ACCENT (because there are southern accents and then there are SOUTHERN ACCENTS) bashfully tell his nurse, “Weyell golly – I wore mah naaace boots today, but didn’t think abawt wearin’ mah decent socks!! Sorrah ‘bout thayat!”

I shuddered at the shaming happening within each of those curtained cubbyholes and dreaded my own impending humiliation.

I was led me back to a room of only four curtains. Nurse Cindy introduced me to her trainee, a brand new first-day-on-the-jobber, then left us to begin the millennia of questions.

“Do you have dentures? Any family history of lung, liver, heart, hand, foot, knuckle, or eyebrow disease? Have you ever been a man?”

Then she got into the meat of the interrogation.

“Why did your doctor order these tests?”

“Because my bloodwork indicated Crohn’s Disease.”

“C-R-O…… CINDY!!!!!! HOW DO YOU SPELL CROHN’S??”

“Have you had constipation or diarrhea? Wait a minute – CINDY!!!! HOW DO YOU SPELL DIARRHEA??”

Now I know it’s an unsavory word that is despised above all words except moist, but if you’re going to be a nurse in the Colonoscopy Center, YA MIGHT WANT TO LEARN HOW TO SPELL THAT ONE.

Then she left me.

Everyone says the prep is the worst part, but it’s actually laying in a curtained prison with no phone for over an hour.

Just as I was going to flee, leaving my robe and surgical shorts behind, someone came for me. She wheeled me to the procedure room, where brutal-looking tubing was shooting in every direction and Journey was blaring over the speakers.

Really? JOURNEY?!

Why not go ahead and have a track of Captain Picard proudly exclaiming “TO BOLDLY GO WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE.”

The anesthetist then gave me the first drug while telling me the doctor would be in soon, and I’d be able to talk to him, but wouldn’t remember it. Which is the cruelest thing you can do to a paranoid member of society. I need to know what inanities I said. And if there’s ever a YouTube video crop up of that conversation, somebody’s getting sued.

Then I woke up in recovery, yelling over and over.

“Cold….COLD….CCCCOOOOOOLDD!!”

I continued yelling for a good ten minutes, as nurse after nurse brought me a warm blanket, piling them onto me until I looked like a misplaced soiled linens cart.

The curtain between me and my neighbor was open, and our faces were five feet apart. We were the same age. I was a recovery yeller, she was a recovery crier.

She felt my eyes on her and turned to me, but didn’t stop wailing.

And so, the crier and the yeller watched each other, through tears and shivers, both weirded out by the other one’s recovery tactics, yet bonding nonetheless.

Until one of the nurses shoved a blanket up around my neck and over my mouth to finally shut me up.

Epilogue: They took a set of horrifying full-color pictures of the inside of my colon and presented them to my husband (See? This post could have been worse.) Nothing was conclusive, but they took several biopsies and may have me swallow a camera if they don’t see what they expect to see. It’s possible that if I do have Crohn’s, it was that all along and never Dysautonomia. I have no preference, except for a correct and final diagnosis.

How to Make Lego Candy.

January 15, 2014January 14, 2014 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Can I get a copy of that recipe?, Lego Love, Toddlers: The Experience

The only toy Noah likes that doesn’t have wheels are Legos.

And, if we’re being honest, he really only likes those because they can have wheels. And even better, he can remove and replace those wheels over. And over. And over.

All day long.

Every day.

For the rest of his life, if his Father’s hobbies are any indication.

So for his birthday (Noah’s, not his Father’s), he wanted a Lego party. I knew with it being a week before Christmas I wasn’t going to be able to pull off anything spectacular, but I already had Lego molds from our Jell-O Legos, so I knew I had to make something with them.

(Yes, it was Ali’s birthday last week. And yes, Noah’s was last year. What can I say – the Birthday-Christmas-Birthday season tramples me with the force of a thousand Llamas.)

And it was so simple that it really doesn’t deserve its own blog post – other than the fact that they were so dang pretty.

In a Lego kind of way.

Here’s all you need to make these for yourself:

1. Lego molds. The Lego Brand molds are the easiest to work with, as their dots aren’t as high (and therefore let go of the candy easier) than the off-brand ones -I have both and much prefer the Lego Brand.

2. Melting Candy in Lego-ish colors. I used Wilton, but any melting candies would work.

3. Eager Children to cause confusion and delay with their drooling ecstasy.

Here’s what you do:

1. Melt the candies carefully according to the package directions – I’ve burnt many a bag of Wilton Melting Candies, and they’re completely unsalvageable.

2. Pour them into the molds and slap the mold repeatedly and firmly on the countertop. It will make your counters look like Murphy Brown’s Painter-boyfriend’s overalls, but it’s worth it.

If you don’t slap, the candy won’t get into the Lego holes. And if the candy doesn’t get into the Lego holes, you won’t have perfect Legos. Notice the dark green Legos above – those are your consequences for not slapping thoroughly, people.

So pretend you’re drowning something and slap until the bubbles quit coming.

3. Refrigerate for about ten minutes, then carefully remove from the molds, pulling apart the sides before pushing on the bottom of the molds to encourage the Legos to stay whole.

4. Give them to your husband to build and serve creatively.

They pair especially nicely with Lego Head Cake Pops, but I always recommend sub-contracting that kind of labor out to the professionals.

Cake Pops by the lovely and talented Jamie’s Rabbits. Lego Cake Pop Stand by my husband. Duh.

Noah was thrilled with all of the above.

…although he found the Cake Pops pretty, but not worth trying, thereby helping him continue to earn his membership into the Picky Eater’s Club. Which is totally okay because they were really for his Father.

He did, however, take great joy in being sung to by everyone in the room.

Then tried (and failed) to dimple his candles out.

Oh – and he also insists that a stack of presents taller than the recipient is also a required accessory for all Lego Birthday Parties…

So there you have it. All the ingredients for success. At least for one day of the year.

Scoot Over and Make a Little Room, Everyone.

January 14, 2014January 13, 2014 Rachel Callahan I'm a Blog Geek

Well. Hi there!

The internet is a funny place.

And by funny, I mean weird.

For whatever reason, one of my denim posts went viral on Pinterest a year and a half ago. And for some other whatever reason, the same post went viral on Facebook last week. As such, there are a decent number of new people hanging around, so I figured I should introduce myself properly.

So hello! I’m Rachel. I live in Birmingham, Alabama, have been blogging for six years, and have written a ridiculous 1,760 blog posts. And by ridiculous, I mean the posts. And the volume.

My favorite aspect of blogging is new friends – I am devoted to getting to know my readers. I love emails, live off of comments, and look forward to interacting with you on Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook. I’m not always super prompt with my email and comment replies (especially this week when I have a couple hundred waiting for me), but I do my very best to get to know everyone who interacts with me. So please – say hi and introduce yourself somewhere!

I don’t always write about jeans. If you followed me because you thought I was a fashion blogger, I’m sorry. I try to be as eclectic as possible, avoiding being shoved into any niche. The highest of compliments is “I would have never guessed you would blog about that today!” However, I do blog about fashion every now and then…you’ll just never know when. Nor will I.

I’m going to be re-running some of my most popular posts here and there over the next few weeks, but if you want a little homework, (and I DO give out gold stars for good work,) here are some of the things I tend to blog about:

Okay. Yes. I’m a Mom. So a lot of my blog posts are about… <gasp> my kids. Hopefully most in are presented in an un-cheesy manner. And they’re cute kids, so that helps.
I even let my kids blog for me sometimes. And vlog. They’re not half bad writers, if I may say so myself.
Okay okay okay. We even homeschool. So sometimes…yes…I talk about homeschooling. But I’m the least natural homeschool Mom on the internet, so don’t expect me to tell you how to make your own gluten-free bread or laundry detergent. If it helps put me into perspective, yesterday morning I told my three year old that he had to finish his breakfast before he could have candy. And his breakfast was a piece of birthday cake.
I am constantly looking for a good investigation, marginally scientific surveys and reports to publish, and other things of a ridiculously geeky nature.
I am infatuated with the internet. And with poking fun at it.
I sometimes make graphics about my favorite television shows, Downton Abbey and The Big Bang Theory.
I find great joy in discovering the worst stuff on Zulily and sharing it with you. I’m not sure that Zulily feels that same joy.
My bank and I have a weird relationship, and it comes up from time to time.
I’ve been attending Alabama Football games with my husband for 14 years. And I document the stunning fashion statements that lie within.
I tend to attract all members of the Awkwardly Intense Busybody Club. And I take notes for you.
I like to point out the more unique facets of life – for instance, how breast pumps talk. And some people eat placenta. And that my city has a graffiti artist named Moist.
Clearly, I don’t mind being disgusting when a blog post calls for it.
Every now and then, I get struck with an inspiration for craftiness. Some fail, others succeed.
I’ve become obsessed with taking photos – especially of my city and sunsets. And they’re almost all taken on my iPhone – and I don’t mind sharing how I take them.
Every now and then, I get serious. But very rarely. I promise.

Now that we know each other a little better, I hope you haven’t run off screaming.

If not, say hello! Introduce yourself, tell me where you’re from, something unique about you, and what sort of blog post appeals to you the most. I’m looking forward to meeting you all!

The PlayPlace Rescue.

January 12, 2014January 12, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Toddlers: The Experience

If you’ve never done it, then either,

a. You’re not a parent,
b. Your kid is fearless and never panics in the realm of PlayPlaces, or
c. You’re too much of a germaphobe to allow yourself to come into such a situation.

The Infamous Chuck E. Cheese rescue (that was not only repugnant to experience but also left us with a hefty family-sized stomach virus) forced me into category c. After swearing to the world that I’d never enter another Chuck again, I also adjusted my lifestyle to avoid any and all other PlayPlaces as well – my PTSS was too great to cope with such.

And I was committed. Because I even avoided Chick-Fil-A PlayPlaces, despite 47% of our family’s nutrition deriving from their superior chicken and waffle fries. We either began receiving those nutrients at the mall locations only, or going through the drive-thru and then eating in the parking lot simply to avoid the dreaded request.

I took great pride in my family’s status of not stepping foot into a PlayPlace since 2011.

Until last week.

ACT I:

Wednesday was Ali’s birthday, and in order to make it special, I surprised her by meeting Chris at the Chick-Fil-A near his office for lunch.

Eating a birthday lunch in the car seemed a bit uncouth, and you can’t very well deny a birthday girl the PlayPlace, especially after she spent quite a bit of time worrying that she had stretched past the “You have to be under this line to play” mark overnight, thanks to turning seven.

(Or perhaps that she’d stretched over the mark since 2011. Because, well, obviously.)

And after all, there was a sign next to the door that said “This PlayPlace cleaned regularly by SuchAndSuch Sanitary-Sounding-Service.”

Then, the nice lady who buses the tables, refills drinks, and eavesdrops on conversations brought Ali the biggest, baddest Birthday Ice Cream Sundae ever made, so clearly this was a superior and therefore germ-free Chick-Fil-A.

And so. Against my better judgment and breaking my magnificent streak, I allowed both of my children to cross the threshold – Noah entering a Chick-Fil-A PlayPlace for the first time in his long three years of life.

He stared up at it, train overhead, with a look of awe and anticipation.

It was one of the old-style PlayPlaces – the kind with the narrow climbing tower made up of half triangles opposite of each other, requiring a snaking up of children, and keeping adults out with its impossible geometric angles.

But I trusted him.

After all, he’s my brave kid. He could handle it.

(Ali was a monstrous wuss at his age.)

My first clue that perhaps he wasn’t as brave as I thought was him panicking and coming back down after the third triangle.

But his coaxing sister kept tempting him.

“There’s a train up here, Noah!”

“Oh! And there’s a bouncy thing in the train!!”

The bouncy thing worked. He gritted his tiny teeth and crawled up into the train.

I sighed with relief and sat back to enjoy a moment of my children being out of sight.

Which is when the screaming started.

I yelled up for Ali to show him the way down.

But that NEVER works with my children. WHY DON’T KIDS TRUST EACH OTHER??? Your sister is not going to lead you to the Bog of Eternal Stench!

The screams turned into high-pitched “MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!!”s.

I had no choice. I stopped for a moment of back-bend yoga stretches to prepare myself for the spinelessness this mission would require.

And then I began my slither.

As they always did, the surfaces of the PlayPlace screamed jeers of germ-filled mockings with each touch of my finger, hand, elbow, hair and NO NO do whatever it takes to not let your cheek touch a surface!!!

Because honestly, I see all children as Petri Dishes of Disease.

I curled around those triangles like Randall sneaking into a child’s room for a scare.

To the left…to the right…on my back….on my elbows…don’t scratch your nose…or you’ll die of tuberculosis…to the left…to the right…

All the while his screams of panic echoed off the plastic walls and poked holes in my eardrums like an ice pick in a watermelon.

I finally made it up to the train and talked him down as if I were negotiating a jumper off the ledge.

And then he hurried down on his own – apparently my power of Mommishness is so strong that my mere presence girds him with strength.

We used all of the sanitizer wipes to be found at that Chick-Fil-A and prayed all the way home that we didn’t catch something. Or everything.

~~ INTERMISSION ~~

ACT II:

The next morning, we had a field trip with our homeschooling group to the Birmingham Museum of Art.

I had every intention of getting Noah a babysitter for the event, but never got around to it. So I was faced with the reality of taking my handsy toddler to see million-dollar collections of extraordinarily breakable art.

He didn’t break anything or even set off any Art Alarms (despite some of the older children causing a few sirens), but that was only due to an exhausting three-hour struggle between Mom and Tot.

A friend wanted to get lunch afterward, and we decided on…Chick-Fil-A.

Different location, same PlayPlace layout.

How in Chicken’s Name did I manage to stay out of Chick-Fil-A interiors for two years and then end up at two in two days?

It’s as if it was our time to die.

Perhaps it was my guilt over wrangling my three-year-old into behavior for three hours. Or perhaps the location of the day before’s memory had been damaged or at least stalled out in my brain. Whatever the reason, I allowed the children to head off to the PlayPlace after lunch.

Noah quickly climbed to the top, and so I thought perhaps his last adventure had boosted his bravery to where it needed to be.

Until the screaming started.

Apparently, this train didn’t have a bouncy thing. And that brought on the panic.

“I CAN’T GET DOOOOOOOWN!!! I WILL FALLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!”

This time, my Motherly Slither was further complicated with high traffic from the scores of children that magically appeared the minute Noah’s breakdown began. And my boots were heels. And I didn’t dare take them off to reveal my mismatched lime green socks. Because priorities.

I made my way up as far as I could go and told him to come down.

“I DON’T WAAAAAAAANT TO COME DOWN!!!”

The multitudes of other children talking loudly made my negotiations much more intense.

“Noah. NOAH! You can play up here but you MUST quit crying.”

“I DON’T WAAAAAAAAAANT TOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Avoiding a near kick to the face from a kid too tall to be in there anyway, I told him, “Then come down with me. RIGHT NOW.”

My firm ledge-talking skills worked and he quietly made his way down the wretched triangles.

I made my way out and began gathering my pride and dusting off the germ spores.

As he turned around and shot straight back up the tower.

AND PANICKED. AGAIN.

What exactly did he think was going to change?!

I have no idea but I made my second journey up, grabbed him, told Ali that we had to go, and ran out of the PlayPlace, busting a lemonade and creating a waterfall onto my arm and Noah’s head.

(His hair may still have a lemonade crust.)

It’s a good thing that Chick-Fil-A has nice parking lots.

The Frozen South.

January 9, 2014January 8, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Actually Possibly Informational, I Play at Photography, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck

I get it. We’re not the only ones who have been cold this week.

(Minnesota readers? Are you still alive? How about Michigan? Canada? Illinois? Report in, everyone!)

But it’s been cold here. Cold enough to set records and let us experience single digit temperatures below zero windchills and other such absurdities that we’re not built to withstand.

Which turned The Deep South into a post-apocalyptic society of madness.

In the days of my youth, The South only went Y2K when we might have than a centimeter of snow or, horrors, enough ice to see under a microscope.

But no more.

In Southern Freak-Out World Shutdowns, cold is the new snow.

We basically need to enact Martial Law to keep people from bankrupting themselves on Milk and Bread. It’s a tired joke and ridiculously used up cliché, yet people continue to buy it en masse. I’m pretty sure I saw every bread shelf in the state tweeted Sunday night, and they were all empty.

I won’t pretend to understand and I purposefully didn’t buy milk this week (even though my half gallon was two days away from expiration) for fear of being counted among the Sheeple. And also because I’m assuming they put tracking devices on bread and milk during weeks like these and then publish the names and addresses of stupid buyers so that the world may scoff.

And I don’t like to be scoffed.

So instead, I’ll have my cereal with questionable milk and eat my sandwiches without bread.

And anyway. If I WERE going to stock up for an actual snowstorm, milk and bread wouldn’t even be on the first page of my list. Because there are many items out there that are more vital to my ongoing survival.

Like Chocolate.

And also, chocolate.

I attempted to get the children out of the house on Monday to do errands. The beautiful part of motherhood is that you’re always learning something new about your precious little ones, and my lesson that day was that Noah’s legs do not function in below-freezing weather.

AT ALL.

As in, he just stands there in shock until he begins to grow snotcicles rather than just walking FROM THE PARKING LOT TO THE STORE.

After experiencing this particularly frosty character trait for the first time, I attempted to pick him up and carry him into the grocery store – with very little luck. I had the kid padded like Ralphie, and he was so thick and slippery that it was like carrying a 40 pound satin pillow at the most cumbersome of angles.

So if that’s the kind of hardship that people were stocking up on milk and bread to avoid, then I get it, people. I get it.

But the most unfair part of our week was that despite the fact that we had below freezing temperatures for 60 hours straight, we had zero precipitation.

Okay not zero. We had a tease of a “Wintry Mix” Sunday night to jerk up our hopes and then dash them onto the hard, unfrosted ground.

So we had to find other ways to amuse ourselves.

Luckily for the children, I had seen some photos of frozen bubbles, and fully planned on using our ridiculous temperatures to try it out for ourselves.

I spend my entire year trying and failing rid our house of leaky, slimy bubble bottles, but of course I couldn’t find a single bottle when I actually wanted the stuff.

So I made my own out of dishwashing soap, and we set off (or rather sat in the front doorway shivering and wrapped in blankets) for adventure.

The bubbles didn’t work until we left our bubble solution outside for a while and gave our porch a couple cups of water to “pre-treat” it for catching bubbles.

But our victory was sweet.

Extraordinarily frigid, but fantastic nonetheless.

Some of our bubbles looked like abandoned igloos in a frozen tundra,

While others looked more like the Epcot center swallowed by a snow globe.

Ali enjoyed crunching them, fascinated with how unbelievably thin they actually were despite their bulky appearance.

I’m not going to go as far as to say that our bubbles made up for the sad fact that we received no snow, but I will admit that they’re making me look forward to the next cold snap.

So. What did your family do to stay sane this week? And how cold did it get?

A Tiny Writer’s View of Her Year.

January 8, 2014January 13, 2014 Rachel Callahan Ali Blogs, Every Now and Then I Can Be Sappy Too., Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Kids: The Experience., The Blissfulness of Life

For her past five birthdays, I’ve been writing her birthday posts for her.

But she’s seven today. And after keeping a diary for over a year, Ali is now a prolific writer (and, as the year went on, became a creative illustrator) in her own right.

(After all, she did tell the bat story better than me.)

So I felt it only fair to let her write this year’s recap herself, with some of my favorite pages out of her diary – giving a somewhat three-dimensional view of the growth of the world in her eyes and mind.

January 2013

She had a great birthday. And fell in love with the Curlz Font.

She also vlogged with friends and lost body parts.

AJ ckam ovr
we mad vidios
I lost my secint toth.

And her flood renovations made progress.

(I totally think that awesome should be spelled “osm” all the time. Because in the south, awesome often rhymes with possum.)

February 2013

Some things don’t deserve deeper explanation. Or an osm.

She got to help my Mom with her Valentine’s Cubbies Party. It was marginally exciting.

March 2013

Her ballet career seemed to be waning.

Today is ballat day today.
O. I am not exided.
Basids hers the box for it.

(A checked box is certainly the ultimate mark of sincerity.)

April 2013

Her recital dress and makeup(!!) helped rekindle her excitement – at least for a day.

And the prospect of Spring rejuvenated her.

May 2013

Her renovations were complete, and she approved of her new flooring pattern.

June 2013

After finishing a long year of Kindergarten, we took a complete educational break. As such, no entries were made in June.

July 2013

She realized the fun of illustrating for the first time, as well as in-text sticker placement.

We went to the bech.
And playd seshels.
And more.

August 2013

We took a trip to the neighboring states of Jorja and Tinase/Tinasy, started school, and had a couple lazy diary entries.

September 2013

She realized that it’s much more fun to illustrate your brother going to the doctor than yourself.

Today we did math handwriteng rideng 1C helth and histore.
Noah hed to go to the doctor today.

October 2013

Ali had fonder memories of the pumpkin patch disaster than I. And also remembered the pumpkins to be quite larger than reality.

She lost her head over a long day.

Friday me and Daddy went to Daddy’s work together!
It was fun!!! Then me and Daddy went to chocy ches and at pizza.
Then came home and watcht a movee for playtim.
Satrday me and Daddy went to football!
Today we went to Kids Church.
Lolng Day.

(For the record, that was the weekend that Noah and I went out of town. Hence the only reason she got to go to Chuck E. Cheese again.)

She illustrated my sunset stalking.

And depicted perfectly the pastime of meeting new neighbors.

And she depicted me rather creepily giving out candy to children at Trunk and Treat.

But her biggest leap forward in October was the ability to portray suspense and intrigue.

Today suprise!
Mommy tacs us to lunch with……
Daddy!!
And and we get sucrs.
Then we go to Micls
And I spind my alawins.

November 2013

We had a school field trip where we got to meet our favorite weatherman, James Spann,

In her illustration of our field trip, Ali gave James Spann a generous amount of hair (because he told them it hurt his feelings when people made fun of his lack of hair), and apparently all of the children dressed identically and clapped manically.

In “A Christmas Story”, Xed out eyes meant death. In Ali’s stories, they apparently mean intense excitement.

She also reported on the fact that on some days, our house is a revolving door.

Also? Compared to January’s entries, she got a LOT more loquacious.

Wensday we went to Nabeel’s.
We hed Thanck’sgiving.
Shosday we watcht the parade!
The day before that
we made plasmats!
hehehehe that rims. hahahaha.
We helpet Daddy with Crist-mas lights!
Amanda helpet with decorating the Christmas tree!
We hed a fotball party and Grandmamma Pop and Nick came to our home!
We went to Church Sunday and we had a difrint Daily News!
Jessy came Monday to babbysit.
Today Gramamma is cuming during qiit time cus she neds my help with cubes craft’s.
he hu ha he he.

December 2013

She accurately depicted our family portraits, but conveniently leaving out the fact that she dirtied her knees before a single shot was taken.

Today we get pictshr and if we be good we get my 4th favrite candy…
sawer-patch!!!
Eneyway
on with the story.
To um yestorday
Noah did not want to try my
that rims te he
So my 4th favrit food and got as dancing.

I’m sure all of that made perfect sense to her.

Anyway, on with the story.

Most of her posts in December had to do with candy.

Or candy and TV. Because I’m the best of Moms.

I felt like her illustration of Santa was on par with the actual events,

And her excitement over her brother’s birthday was quite touching.

But her real illustrative talent didn’t show through until this extraordinarily graphic entry. Which is my favorite diary entry in the history of the world.

Today Mommy me and Noah feel sooo sick.
I relley did not feel like eating and I did not eat much.
I pewey! I jest hed a big toot.
Mommy lad dawn a lot.
And Noah has big poop’s.

(Dear Sixteen-Year-Old Ali: Let the record reflect that I had your full permission to post these entries.)

(And you were quite proud of them.)

She did a great job of portraying mine and Chris’ great illness in both font, picture, and her spelling of Saturday.

And she continued documenting as my illness wore on. I told you I’ve always cried ugly.

But thankfully, everyone found the joy in their hearts in time for Christmas.

Happy Birthday, dearest Ali, and thank you for chronicling the year with more flair than I could ever hope to have.

On Having (and Finding) My Celebrity Twin.

January 6, 2014January 6, 2014 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Investigative Report, Mystery Solved

It wasn’t an option, really. I had to find her.

The number of Facebook messages, texts, tweets, and in-person comments was rising so quickly that I just started assigning people a number.

“Hey! Have you seen that Nokia Lumia commercial…”

“You’re number thirteen.”

“Oh. So it’s not you?”

“Nope.”

I could see what they saw, although I thought she looked like a much prettier and younger version of myself. And really, it was more in the mannerisms than anything, so I was getting a lot more questions from people I know in real life than I was from my blog readers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uELoogRgvo4

I live for a good investigative assignment, especially one that involves a healthy bit of stalking, so finding my new doppelgänger definitely qualified as a worthy use of my time.

Plus, all the people I used to look like had waned in their fame, so I’d gotten bored with life without a celebrity lookalike.

It wasn’t an easy assignment – there’s no imdb for commercial actresses, and since the commercial in question was fairly new, all of the blogs that specialized in such hadn’t gotten to it yet.

The only lead I’d found was a name that a YouTube commenter had suggested as a possibility: Jo Armeniox.

I Google Imaged her and fairly quickly wrote her off. Her face didn’t seem to match up with the commercial – Jo was way more glamorous. But just in case, I checked twitter: she was there, but hadn’t tweeted in over a year – so clearly, there were no tweets about being on set filming for Nokia.

I gave up the search for a couple of weeks, until I ran into one of my former college professors. And the first thing he said was “Hey! There’s this commercial…”

Did you catch that? A College Professor! I took his classes 13 years ago. Yet this actress looked so much like me (or at least college me) that someone I knew over a decade ago thought of me when he saw it.

So I rekindled my research with renewed determination. I found another lead, suggesting that the actress in the commercial was the same actress that had a part in a certain television show. I imdb’ed the show and examined every single actress that had ever been on any season – I scoured dozens of women’s photos.

Near the very bottom of the cast list was Jo Armeniox.

I couldn’t ignore it as a coincidence, so I pulled up her Google Images again. As I was staring at the rows of pictures dubiously, Chris walked into my office and peeked over my shoulder.

“Good GRIEF that girl looks like you!!”

I didn’t see it, but he looks at me more than I look at me, so I began the microscopic comparison of Jo versus the Nokia Lumia girl.

I enlarged the photos as much as possible and started my exam. Eyebrow to eyebrow, upper lip to upper lip, lower lip to lower lip, dimple to dimple.

She had probably never been raked over so thoroughly in her life.

Finally, I declared Commercial Girl to be Jo Armeniox. Not because I thought she looked like Jo Armeniox, but because the microscopic details of her features matched up too perfectly not to be Jo Armeniox.

Photographical DNA doesn’t lie.

I peeked at her twitter account again and, as fate would have it, she had decided to start tweeting again – less than 24 hours prior.

Clearly we were meant to chat.

So I popped the question.

And my eyebrow examination had paid off – I had located my twin.

We chatted back and forth on Twitter, and I asked her for her email address to chat further.

In the meantime, she went to Europe for Christmas, and Chris and I watched clips from all of her television appearances and one of her movies, My Best Day, to ensure thoroughness in our research.

Jo and I caught back up after Christmas, and she sent me some pictures and answered my questions. Receiving photos from one’s actress-lookalike is a curiously disturbing sensation, because she really does look exactly like I imagine myself to look. But then when I put one of my own pictures next to her, I realize how far I actually am from my imagined self. I’ve never even noticed my chin line before but now I really want Jo’s.

The interview was delightful. Like my last interview (with Moist), I found it fascinating to be awarded a peek into someone’s life that was so different than my own.

1. How did you get into the film industry? Or what inspired you to do so?

I got into the film industry after growing up doing a lot of theater in North Carolina. I went to school at the University of the Arts and then moved to NY where I thought I would be doing a lot of theater. I have not done any theater in NY to this day! Not that I didn’t want to, it was more that I couldn’t afford to pay my rent! So I think I just put more energy into film and TV because that’s where I saw myself working.

2. How old are you? Any siblings? Did your parents ever mention anything about a mysterious older sister? Do you have any Greek relatives? My family is from Kalamata, Greece. I told my Mom and Dad this was their last chance to confess if I had a younger sister I didn’t know about before I talked to you, and they didn’t admit to anything.

I won’t tell you how old I am lol. I don’t have any siblings and desperately longed for them (even to this day!) No one mentioned any long lost older sister, however but my Grandfather was Greek and his family came in from the island of Chios(?!)

(For the record, I mapped the journey between Jo’s Grandfather’s hometown and my Great-Grandfather’s hometown – it’s across the Aegean Sea. So if there were any inter-family relational scandals going on, they were taking a Ferry to make it happen.)

4. I noticed that most of your roles seem to be troubled women – gamblers, murderers, et cetera. Is this your choice, or are us brunettes typecast as bad guys? I need to know this just in case I decide to have a career change. One must properly prepare to be evil.

Often I identified more with being the recluse, or the damaged, or “bad girl.” I’ve always considered myself a strong woman, but a lot of times strong women are written as villains because society still has trouble understanding women as well-rounded, complex human beings. A lot of my actor friends joked with me when they found out I had a recurring role on Boardwalk Empire saying “So are you a slut or a saint?” Nothing against Boardwalk of course, it’s more about how society views female characters. I like to work as hard as possible to be a fearless actor, and often that means taking chances with more troubled characters.

Side note: you are not allowed to go into the entertainment business because you will take work from me!

5. How many creepy male stalkers have you picked up so far? Thanks to the internet, there are way too many of those around even for Mommy Bloggers – let alone for actresses. Yeesh.

I’ve picked up my fair share of creepy male stalkers. I don’t think they realize it’s creepy. Or maybe I’m just trying to justify their sketchy behavior. There are some people who can’t separate the actor from the role. That bothers me but it kind of comes with the business. I also have a tendency to be kind to people I don’t know, and I HAVE to quit that already. So this interview is done.

Just kidding.

6. What’s the most embarrassing, funny, or fascinating thing that’s ever happened while filming?

Hmmm well, I don’t embarrass easily for some reason, but I think the most fascinating thing that has ever happened while filming was working on the show “Unforgettable.” When shooting a TV show, particularly primetime and on a major network, things tend to move really fast. There isn’t a terrible amount of room (if any) for exploring or improv, because well, time is money and you only have around 15 days to shoot an episode.

Anyways, I was doing a scene with Michael Gaston that was really emotional and intense. We did a number of takes, got through most of the scene in terms of coverage, all was going well. Then on my second or third close up Michael took a turn and went completely off book. He was calling me names, cursing at me and really drilling me. It escalated and I got angry and punched a table. After we cut everyone started clapping and laughing. We referred to it as the “European take.” I felt honored that he decided to improv and play within the scene with me. I would like to think it’s a way of showing trust and respect for a lot of actors.

7. What would be your dream role?

Dream role. Let’s see. Strong female lead seems a bit obvious, but it’s true. Characters that are leaders and fighters. I like to play provocative characters. I like characters that push boundaries, I could even go as far to say characters that make people uncomfortable. Those characters that are evil, addicts, sexual and tough fascinate me, and I think are dream role worthy. I think ultimately having my own work produced, having creative input on my own series would be the dream job.

8. Do Nokia phones really take that good of pictures? ;-)

Nokia phones take INCREDIBLE pictures!!! No kidding!!

And that, dear internet, is how one goes about stalking their twin.

Bad Answers to Good Questions: Christmas Edition.

January 3, 2014January 2, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Deception: A Parent's Best Friend, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously.

Sometimes my kid asks me a question for which I have no answer. I vaguely speak a bunch of hogwash and then change the subject, hoping she’ll move on.

But my mind cannot. It is a continuity issue that must be addressed. And so it spins in the background, using up my RAM memory and slowing down all other processes until it comes up with an answer. And it’s usually a really, really bad one. One that I could never actually give to my kid.

Last week’s question really gave credence to not doing the whole Santa thing.

“Mommy. If Santa visits every kid in the world, then why do we need to give Angel Tree Christmas presents to kids who have less than us?”

I had been expecting this question weeks ago when we were shopping for our Angel Tree, but no. She saved it for Christmas Eve.

Thanks, kid.

I said something about how Santa can’t give them everything they need and Jesus asks us to help others, then changed the subject frantically. And then my mind worked on this explanation for the rest of the day.

Well, kid. Nothing in this life is free – that’s something you need to go ahead and learn now. It’s actually life’s not fair’s broke mooch of a cousin, and in this case, they go together.

in the 1940’s, when the world was an innocent place and Christmas movies were being made like “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “Miracle on 34th Street”, Santa really was a great guy. He found joy in making the world a cheerier place and truly adored giving presents to the children.

But then he let his fame get to his head. Just like it happens to the best of Disney Spawn like Miley Cyrus, it happens to Christmas VIPs.

Santa got greedy, egotistical, and really an all-around jerk. He now parties with Jay-Z and smokes crack with the Mayor of Toronto. I’ve even heard he’s dated a Lesser Kardashian.

(Oh yeah. Did I mention that Mrs. Claus left him in the mid-90s? She used to preview all the cassette tapes that boys and girls would ask for, and after listening to a few too many accompanied with a bit of Elf Leaf, decided that she wanted to follow Phish around the country.)

Anyway. Santa had to support his burgeoning party lifestyle somehow. And that’s when he decided to start charging the Santa Tax.

That’s right – I see your eyes getting wide. We PAY Santa to come here every year.

The amount of presents you get under the tree is directly correlated to how much Santa Tax we paid the prior year. So those braggy parents you saw on my Facebook feed whose kids got a Treehouse-playset, an inflatable bouncy house, and matching Range Rover Power Wheels? They were bragging because they paid a metric sleighload of Santa Tax so that he would spoil their kids like that.

But then, kids whose parents don’t have any money – well, they totally get the shaft.

I know.

You thought that Santa was all warm and loving and benevolent – but he’s totally not. He will put an entire family on the naughty list faster than a poorly worded tweet can end your career.

So those kids – it’s our job to love on them. We buy them presents so that they can get something. And usually, their parents tell them that our presents are from Santa so that the kids don’t grow up hating the old man.

(Even though he kinda deserves it.)

But really – it’s just the way of the world, honey. You can’t expect a man to have a monopoly on Christmas for hundreds of years and not go bad. We’re really actually lucky it’s not worse – I wouldn’t be surprised if the Elves started using everyone’s stockings for their drug smuggling side-gig. And we will rue the day when a particularly naughty kid wakes up with a reindeer head in his bed.

But don’t repeat any of this – because Santa’s got his spies out everywhere – I’m sure you’ve seen them when you’ve gone to your friend’s houses. They go by the name “Elf on a Shelf” but they’re really miniature Santa Tax collectors. If they hear you talking about Santa’s operation he will DEFINITELY not bring you anything.

And I hear these days he doesn’t just put coal in stockings – he douses that coal in lighter fluid and sets it on fire.

And that’s one of the many reasons why we focus on Jesus’ birth instead of Santa at Christmas.

Merry Christmas, kids. Sleep tight!

It’s Fashion, Y’all. Gameday Fashion.

January 2, 2014January 1, 2014 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Football and I have a Complicated Relationship, Gameday Fashion, I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously., Weird Strange and True

I wasn’t going to post one this year.

I know, I know – it’s tradition.

But I live-tweeted it instead on a particularly fun gameday, and I thought that was good enough.

Apparently it was not.

I had people who missed it. Or wanted it all again. And some that even said “it’s all they wanted for Christmas.”

Weirdos.

I am not one to let people down, regardless of how bonkers their requests are, or how disappointed most fans may be that Alabama is “just” playing in the Sugar Bowl tonight.

(When I was a kid I pictured a gigantic bowl full of sugar with dozens of tiny football players running through it like maggots. Everyone else did too, right?)

At any rate, I present to you: The 2013 Collection of Gameday Sightings.

And those sightings were not limited to humans – even the Wall-Es in attendance got dressed up real nice.

(Who brings their bulldozer tailgating with them?? The same people who name their kids Krimson Tyde, if I had to guess.)

But aside from heavy machinery outfitting, It doesn’t have to cost a fortune to be gameday-appropriate. Sometimes it might even cost suspiciously too little.

Don’t expect those boots to make it in AND out of the stadium before unraveling.

But shoes were a big deal this year – after all, they can make or break the cohesion of your look.

Shoes can also be useful in identifying your body if you get caught up in a stadium trample.

Shoes can keep the flow of your outfit going from your hips to your toes,

And shoes always set off the sexiness of your jeans.

Oh. And did I mention how much Toms loves Alabama Football? Because they do.

But remember – the walk to the stadium is long and tedious. Although team colors are important, comfort is much more so.

But if you just can’t find that perfect pair of gameday shoes, you can always wear them on your chest.

Legwear is also vital to consider on gameday.

Or rather, the lack of legwear.

Because it’s Alabama, where pants are always optional.

Even in boot + knee sock weather.

But that’s okay. Because God approves of all forms of Alabama Fandom.

And He doesn’t mind AT ALL when His favorite football team’s fans take his Holy Scriptures and turn them into cheers.

(But perhaps this is why he gave Auburn all the sunsets and sunrises.)

But God isn’t the only notable Alabama fan.

On gameday, you can spot Johnny Depp and Zach Galifianakis,

random dudes that find Flora-Bama wife-beaters to be perfect Alabama attire,

And Vin Diesel. Wearing HexBug-sized Houndstooth.

So clearly, like Stacy’s Mom we’ve got it going on.

Also, we have overalls and we know how to use them. We’ll do stripes.

We can rock Houndstooth up one leg and down the other.

We can even do random farm animals and make it look awesome.

WE EVEN HAVE MONOGRAM KIOSKS ON OUR SIDE, PEOPLE.

When monograms are for us, who can be against us?

Hurting our chances of winning, however, is the fact that we believe leggings can be pants.

And that we assume chevron can be worn vertically. While straddling a chain fence.

But our ability to successfully layer houndstooth and houndstooth TOTALLY makes up for that.

And, just like at any social occasion, you run the risk of showing up dressed just like your best friend. Or twin sister. Whatever.

To mitigate that possibility, just show up to the game in your bathrobe.

Or, if you prefer, in Mom Jeans or custom-shredded leggings.

And if you want your Mom Jeans to be your own dirty little secret, there are festive solutions for that, too.

But we must always remember.

ALWAYS REMEMBER, people.

LSU Fans are weirder than Alabama fans.

Thank God for LSU.