Rachel Callahan

13 Things That Need to be Banned from Twitter.

October 31, 2013October 30, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, I'm a Blog Geek, Let's Talk about The Internet, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously.

I love all forms of social media – yes, even Pinterest, despite my poking fun at it a little too often. But when it comes to playing favorites, I do not hide my adoration for Twitter and disdain for Facebook.

However.

Twitter has its own set of cultural quirks and personal phrases that have sprung up over the years, and it’s time that we properly discuss them.

In my experience, one of the main problems with Twitter is finding a way to describe the euphoria surrounding the consumption of food without sounding completely ridiculous. For instance,

1. “Yes, Please.” – Often used immediately before someone consumes some morsel of goodness (i.e. “Double fudge brownie topped with chocolate ice cream? Yes, please.”), it has simply reached the decent end to its life. Anyone further who uses it? No, please.

(Yes, my son did use this phrase earlier this week. Yes, he meant it ironically.)

2. “Get in mah belly” – This is the term that some are beginning utilize to replace “Yes, please.” It’s frightening, really. I don’t want to think about what food looks like once it’s in yah belly.

3. “Nom Nom” – The preceder of “Yes, please”, and still not okay.

Perhaps it’s my problem. Perhaps I just don’t want to know how very tasty your food feels in your mouth. Perhaps I just need to get over it.

But let’s move on.

4. “Do me a solid.” – Despite its Seinfeld origin, this is an expression that’s just recently wormed its way into Twitter vernacular. And it is BEYOND UNACCEPTABLE, people. If there is anyone in the world that can hear “Hey – can you do me a solid?” without conjuring any images of toilets or worse, then they are LYING. Or just a less soiled person than me.

5. ‘Merica, ‘Murica, ‘Merikah, #Merica, #Murica, #Merikah, and any and all other front-abbreviated forms of America. Freedom is not free, people – and neither was that A that you just hacked. ‘Eorge ‘Ashington is cursing you all from his ‘Rave.

6. #ootd – Really. I’m happy for you that you wear an outfit every day. Or maybe I’m just jealous because there are more days than I want to admit where I don’t change out of my pajamas.

7. “Let me get in you” and “I am in you” – let’s not talk to our beds, baths, houses, cities, or restaurants in this manner. Have you no respect?

8. Tute. I understand that unnecessarily shortening words is a thing to do, but in this case, let’s keep it tutorial. It’s only four more characters – I know you can do it. Let’s go ahead and include in this ban totes, probs, deets, dupes, bestie, and whatevs.

9. Amazeballs. Yes, amazing is overused. No, amazeballs is not the solution. Amazeballs is never the solution.

10. The fact that there is no good spelling for “Whoa.” I cannot hear that word in my head without adding the “-uh” at the end. And “Whoe-Wuh” is not, I don’t think, the sound you’re trying to get from me. But unfortunately, “Woah” is not an acceptable substitution, and despite my love of all things spelling, I can’t find one that works the way we need it to.

11. “This –>” – if that’s all you can come up with to caption your photo, then perhaps you shouldn’t be tweeting it.

12. W00t, Squee, YOLO, and smh. These “words” denigrate Twitter to the status of a seventh grade slumber party. And no matter how much I enjoyed my seventh grade slumber parties (M.A.S.H. and all,) some things are best not relived.

13. Daily sunset photographers. In the words of Martha Stewart, “Who ARE these people?” Do they think we’ve never seen a sky before? Oh wait.

So. Besides me and my sunsets, what is on your Twitter Burn list?

Noah Answers Your Burning Questions.

October 29, 2013October 28, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, I'm No Videographer, NoahBlogs, NoahVlogs, Toddlers: The Experience

After Noah’s last Fashion Tips video, he asked if you had any questions, and several of you did.

He put a good deal of research into his answers, hence his somewhat belated reply. But he did not give up. He is here to enlighten you, make your life easier, and unearth the mysteries of the world.

If you have more questions, by all means leave them in the comments.

The Bed-Making Conundrum.

October 28, 2013October 27, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Parent of the Year, Survey Says. . .

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a gathering of mothers. The discussion of child-training was among us, and one of the examples used was the age at which a child had the ability to make their own bed.

There was much nodding and murmuring of agreements as one Mom shared her own experiences with bed-making as a benchmark in personal responsibility and effort.

And I sat quietly, trying to blend in, to not lie with my body language, and to still appear to be a decent mother being.

Because my children do not make their beds.

Nor do I.

And, to be more shameful, (because that’s what I do here at this blog), the only time any bed in our household gets made is when our fantastically angelic cleaning fairies visit us every other week.

Except for Ali’s – because she has actually asked them to not ever make her bed. Because it would ruin her painstakingly-created Fellowship of Cotton-Filled Friends.

And I’m okay with that.

(As is Noah anytime he can sneak into Plush Paradise, where he could go for days without being detected.)

Let me know when you breathe again now that you’re fully aware of my severe lack of household discipline, then we’ll continue.

Okay. Ready?

Here’s my bed-making negligence excuse: Motherhood is engorged with jobs that have to be repeated over. And over. And over.

Diapers MUST be changed.

Dishes MUST be washed (unless you want to use all paper and plastic and have an Environmental Task Force knocking down your door.)

Children MUST be bathed (thank goodness not as often as diapers need to be changed.)

Food MUST be cooked (or at least thrown on a plate and pitched to the children.)

Bedtime songs must be sung, teeth must be brushed, books must be read, toys must be picked up, naps absolutely must be sought, clothes must be washed, shoes must be found but good luck with that, car seats must be buckled and unbuckled and re-buckled, and noses must be wiped.

It’s a job of rinse and repeat. And as such, I prefer to eliminate any and all unnecessary repetitive parts of my life.

And bed-making is the flagship derelict of this group.

Because who sees my bed? How does it benefit me or anyone else to have a made bed between the hours of 8am and 11pm?

(Yes there’s another shameful admission in that last sentence.)

And how many compiled years of my daughter’s life would be wasted if I made her move 156 stuffed friends every morning simply so that she could pull her blanket smoothly across the plane of her mattress?

Or maybe I’m just lazy.

So tell me. What do you do? Do you make your bed, do your kids make their beds, and at what age did you begin to require it? I think we might just need a scientific study.

The Overnight Stay.

October 25, 2013October 25, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Toddlers: The Experience

Upon putting Noah to bed on the last night of our weekend away together, he casually asked me, “But what about the monsters?”

He’d never mentioned monsters in this or any other room before, so I assured him that there were no monsters and not to worry.

He did not, however, take my assurances to heart.

About an hour later, he started inconsolably screaming. It took me a while to get him to even wake up, and even longer to calm down, but I finally did and put him back to bed.

And then an hour later, it all started again.

This time he had the consciousness to inform me that the long blue curtains in his room {that were denim and had overall hooks(!?!)} were actually Sulley.

(Which, by the way, those denim monstrosities didn’t at all seem to go at all with the supremely girly toile comforter. But toile does not help a toddler sleep.)

(And also, since Noah adores Sulley, his excuse seemed rather sketchy, but you can’t reason with Hyenas, Donkeys, or Toddlers.)

My friend Barkley, not one to shy away from co-sleeping when necessary, encouraged me.

“C’mon. Just let him sleep in your bed. It’ll be fiiiiiine…he’ll understand it’s just a vacation thing.”

“It won’t work. My kids aren’t the ‘sleep in my bed’ type. Ali refuses the concept all together. He’ll never calm down enough. And I won’t be able to sleep a second.”

“You don’t know until you try….”

So, despite my great aversion to sleeping in the same room with my children, I didn’t have the heart to force him to sleep in a room flanked with giant denim monsters.

So I decided to try it.

I gathered up his blankets and paci and cars (yes I let him sleep with cars) and dumped him into my bed.

And, after giving him the ultimatum at least 268 times of “Close your eyes and go to sleep or I’m going to put you back in your bed and I don’t care if there are monsters” (okay I left the monsters part out but he knew it was implied), he fell asleep.

And, if I’m being honest, I fell asleep quicker than I had the night before when I was alone. So maybe Barkley is onto something.

Until Midnight, when he sat up and started rocking in his sleep, moaning eerily.

He laid down on my chest, then sat up and rocked and moaned.

He pushed my head out of the way and laid down on my pillow, then sat up and rocked and moaned.

He tried a dozen different positions, each leading to more rocking and moaning.

Until he finally found the perfect spot: his head jammed under my ribs, laid out perpendicular in the “H” formation – if only Chris had been on the other side to complete the H. Except that there would have been no room for Chris. Because there was barely room for me.

Noah immediately fell back asleep, leaving me approximately six inches of bed space in which to try and arrange myself without falling off the bed or being even more skewered by his extraordinarily forceful head.

It took some effort and way too much time, but I managed to will myself to fall asleep again.

And then there was the 3am serenade of The Thomas and Friends Theme Song.

They’re two, they’re four, they’re six, they’re eight…

You’ve gotta be kidding me. Why is he awake??

Shun–ting Trucks and….hauling freight…

Oh wait. He’s NOT awake.

Down the hills and round the BENDS…

At least he cut out some of the lyrics.

THOMAS AND HIS FRIENDS!

And then he was back to sleep, and so was I.

I roused at 8:30 with the sun streaming in and shockingly with a sleeping toddler positioned back correctly beside me. I tried to get up quietly, but that woke my bedmate.

He looked up at me with his giant blue eyes, grinning at me with half-mischief, half-newly-formed-intimacy. He blinked his thick eyelashes a couple of times adoringly and full of some serious charm, as I began reconsidering my staunch anti-co-sleeping personal position.

And then suddenly, he remembered all of my threats. And squeezed those eyes shut as tightly as he could.

First Date With a Toddler.

October 23, 2013October 23, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Toddlers: The Experience

It was the perfect opportunity to accomplish several goals at once. The race series that my Dad works for (American Le Mans) was in Atlanta, and Noah has been needing to go to “Pop’s Races.” I’ve been craving some nature while the leaves are changing, and have also been desperately wanting to meet up with a dear friend from Charleston, Barkley, and her son (my godson) Woods.

And, Patrick Dempsey races in My Dad’s series. Not that he’s a draw or anything.

Ali hates loud noises, and it had already been decided that she and Chris would be attending the Alabama game together. So it was a perfect fit that Barkley and I have a weekend double date with our sons.

On Thursday, I was highly uncertain as to its outcome. I hadn’t been feeling well, and Noah’s stomach was rebelling against some unknown enemy and leaving a trail of dirty diapers in the wake. He even felt puny to the point of stealing mine and Ali’s chairs during school to transform them into a bed.

Furthermore, I had an insanely busy morning on Friday and left Birmingham at the perfect time to hit Atlanta rush hour traffic, leaving me feeling hopeless about life and amazed at how FANTASTIC I am at avoiding traffic in Birmingham.

We finally arrived at our serene spot on the lake and found Barkley and Woods. Yes, this was just what we needed to unwind.

My Dad joined us and we left for dinner, where Noah came within a millimeter of taking out a 90-year-old cane-bearing lady by choosing the ideal second to tip over his chair (and therefore himself) backwards and into her.

Yes, that was just what I needed to unwind.

Her daughter (or perhaps great-great-great granddaughter) returned with her a second time, waving her arms as frantically as a Biggest Loser contestant in the middle of a set of jumping jacks and yelling at Noah, “LOOK OUT!! COMING THROUGH!!”

Message received.

But when we got back to the house and put the boys to bed and I collapsed on the couch and FINALLY relaxed, it was glorious.

On Saturday morning, we made our way to Road Atlanta. My Dad managed to sweep in on a golf cart and find us among the throngs of Ferraris and Motorhomes before we’d even gotten the car unpacked, and that made for some very happy little boys.

The VIP tour included a trip down to the Paddocks,

Onto the race track,

Introductions to drivers who nearly weighed less than Noah (apparently car racing requires the same diet as horse racing and modeling),

Letting us get as close as we’re ever going to get to Patrick Dempsey – or at least his car,

Taking us back to the paddocks,

Introducing the boys to more race crews,

And then showing us around his office: the Inspection (i.e. Anti-Cheating) Tent.

The boys found this to be the best location of the entire race, running and falling and running and falling.

And running and falling.

And then Dad showed them the lift.

Making it the best day of their lives.

Despite the fact that they would have been gleefully happy playing there for the rest of the day, the race did start, and Noah learned proper National Anthem Decorum from Pop.

And then there were fireworks.

Unexpected, close-by fireworks.

Un-Noah-Approved Fireworks that created much terror and screaming.

And just when I got him calmed down, his earplugs in, and over to the fence where we could watch the races, there was an encore round of Fireworks.

And that’s when he made the logical decision that if he kept his eyes stitched shut, no more fireworks could possibly occur.

And actually, it worked.

While Barkley and Woods picked out their favorite cars,

.And I attempted to get photos as all the cars came back to the pits due to erroneous tire choices,

Noah continued in his blind attentiveness.

He finally convinced Pop that he needed to go back to his office, where he FaceTimed with my Mom – because that’s something you can only do when you drive four hours to go to the races.

We finally let my Dad get back to work, and took the boys into the stands to watch a bit.

…Or at least those willing to USE THE EYES GOD GAVE THEM.

Okay, he did open them a couple of times,

But he was much more interested in performing flyovers with his airplane than in watching the race, much to the chagrin of the freshly waxed Corvette in the Handicapped spot next to the bleachers.

We then took the boys back to the pits to see if we could spot a particular Mister Dempsey. We did not, but that didn’t keep us from imagining that one of those pairs of legs belonged to him.

Noah got in on the search, jamming his nose up to the fence,

then asking loudly, “Where’s Patwick DEMPSEY, Mommy?!?!?”

It began to rain while we tailgated for lunch, so we left the racers to finish their ten hours without us.

The boys spent the afternoon using as little energy as possible to play cars while we expended even less energy sprawled on the couches.

We went down to the lake to dutifully share our dinner with the fish,

And make our husbands back home a smidge jealous.

And I took the opportunity to enjoy the one well-behaved tree giving me the ambiance of autumn that I so desired.

After I put Noah to bed, my Dad texted me from the races and asked, “Are you seeing this?”

Causing me to fall off the couch, fight a losing battle with the sliding door, and nearly fall down the steep stairs to the lake to make it just in time to snag a piece of my favorite therapy.

But it was totally worth it. Even if we do hear from that 90-year-old lady’s lawyer.

On The Torture of Pumpkins.

October 22, 2013October 21, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Actually Possibly Informational, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Toddlers: The Experience

Disclosure: The crafts contained herein are not Martha Stewart Approved, nor are they stolen ideas from said Martha. We must remember: I am not the expert.

So our Pumpkin Saga left off with us having three nearly microscopic pumpkins, an aversion to all future field trips, and cotton nightmares for life.

The children wanted to carve their pumpkins. And I had to tell them that their pinky fingers wouldn’t fit inside those infernally tiny pumpkins and we didn’t know a good Elf from which to borrow a pocketknife, so good luck with that.

(And also, considering the heat that is plaguing our October, if opened they would most certainly succomb to a particularly odious rot in a matter of hours.)

I was, however, willing to do a glitter project. Because, among my more bold and perhaps unintelligent character qualities, I don’t mind playing with glitter and children at the same time.

Ali and I had made glitter pumpkins in the past, but never with Noah, so I was confident it would be a perfectly pleasant undertaking.

He picked out his color, waited semi-patiently for me to give him some targets for said glitter,

And then we realized those dots weren’t going to stay still, so we went with the drippy look. But he was well pleased, albeit a bit too handsy, so it didn’t matter.

Ali had earned some new shimmery glue pens for letting me extract a tooth (I had thrown out dozens of bribes and that was the one she remembered and collected on), so she free-styled her pumpkin while I tried to control her brother and the billions of shiny particles within his grasp.

The only thing I can figure is that she was trying to draw a House Elf. And if so, it was fantastically Dobby-like.

After I safely removed my two-year-old from the premises, I made my own pumpkin, dousing it with a good coating of glue, perhaps taking my vengeance on its patch through suffocation.

I decided to attempt ombré, because I felt the inexplicable desire to be trendy and there was no way I could make a gluey chevron.

I wasn’t under any illusion that I’d just created The Pumpkin of The Season or anything, but I thought it was halfway decent.

Especially compared to my competition.

Until Chris came home, looked at all three pumpkins, then asked, “Who made one that looks like Lady Gaga if she were a crying Pumpkin?”

So next time I’ll just slap some bacon on my pumpkin and call it a day.

50 Restaurants in Crappy Photos: Round Five.

October 21, 2013October 21, 2013 Rachel Callahan 50 Restaurants in Crappy Pictures, I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure

Okay.

So I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from my mission to blog about fifty new restaurants in Birmingham – not because I haven’t been keeping up with my habit of eating out too often, but because I’ve visited a lot of mediocre restaurants.

And mediocre restaurants do not an interesting blog post make – unless I were to tell you about the one that was a total train wreck of a visit but I’ve blogged enough train wrecks lately to make you and me twitch, so we’ll skip that one.

Instead of explaining what made them bland or boring or just okay, I’ll list the mediocres and move on. Feel free to disagree, and if a large enough mob forms, then I promise to return and give said supported restaurant a second shot.

14. Shane’s Rib Shack
15. Johnny’s
16. Sweet Tea Restaurant
17. The J. Clyde

So. Let’s move on to the visits we did enjoy.

18. FIVE –

The atmosphere in FIVE is mysterious and curiosity-piquing. They have a giant painting of Dwight Eisenhower adjacent to smaller paintings of The Beatles. I found myself staring at the antique and well-crafted bar, woodwork, and ceiling, wondering what this building had once been. I’m sure I could have googled it, but that seemed to take away from the mystique that I was enjoying.

Unfortunately, FIVE is also very dark, so photos of said quirkiness were impossible to get for this preferably unobtrusive (and a bit lazy) blogger. And it also contributed to my food photos being even crappier than usual.

The catch at FIVE is that they only have five menu items in each category – five appetizers, five cocktails, five entrées, five desserts…you get the idea.

We started with the Pimento Cheese and Pepper Jelly appetizer. You really can’t create much more of a southern combination than that, and it was flavorful and fantastic.

I didn’t see an entrée that excited me, so I tried two more $7 appetizers for my meal: the Baked Avocado – which housed within it bacon, shrimp, and spicy sauce.

Just looking at it is making me crave another one.

I’m not normally a fan of mixing my shrimp with weird things, but this was so unbelievably tasty that I couldn’t help but eat it way too fast and in gargantuan bites.

I also ordered Yoshie’s Chicken, which is small fried chicken pieces seasoned in soy-ginger with sriracha aioli. These I was not as impressed with – they were pretty much “just chicken nuggets” with a bit of extra flavor.

I wish I’d ordered two baked Avocados, no matter how ridiculous I would have looked.

Chris ordered the cheeseburger, for which they didn’t cheat him on the sides. It was impressive, and quite pleasing, or so I hear.

Moving on, I have been woefully behind on trying Italian restaurants in our city for a long time, because – okay I’m going to be honest. I really like The Olive Garden, and every time I’ve eaten at a more authentic Italian restaurant, the food was seriously too rich for me.

(I know – that admission renders useless every foodie opinion I’ve ever had. But we’ve all got to have our guilty pleasures, right? And The Olive Garden is mine. Even when they mistreat me with breadsticks.)

However, I finally forced myself to visit two local Italian restaurants that my fellow Birminghamians have raved about for years, and I am relieved to say that I was tremendously pleased.

So don’t burn me at the stake – today, anyway.

19. Joe’s Italian

I don’t make it to the Pelham/Alabaster/Helena suburbs often, but Ali desperately wanted to take art lessons this year, and the only place I could find was in Helena. Fortunately, they’ve been great, so it makes it worth the drive.

One evening after art class, we went with a Helena-residing friend to Joe’s Italian in Alabaster. It’s regularly raved about on Social Media, as it should be.

They started us with soft, warm bread and olive oil, and the bread didn’t have a single bit of crunch to it, which is how I think all bread should behave.

My friend Kelly chose the tomato soup to go with her entrée, and she was kind enough to let me taste it. Clearly made fresh from scratch, it was strong, rich, and fantastic.

I made the mistake of ordering the salad with mine, which had the painfully obvious out-of-a-bag look to it. So get the soup, people!

My kids each got Lasagna, one of their favorite foods. Although it appears to have heavy doses of garlic on top, not to worry – it’s just cubily grated cheese. They loved it.

I chose the Tortellini Di Ricotta in the pesto cream sauce. It was exactly what I hoped: a mouth full of pesto happiness.

Since most of what I had heard about Joe’s Italian was centered around their desserts, we ordered two: The Zebra Cake and the Strawberry cake.

I really should have placed my own head in the pictures so you could fully understand the girth of these slices. Instead, I’ll have to attempt to paint a word picture:

1. My kids can eat their weight in cake.
2. Kelly and I also enjoyed them.
3. We filled two to-go boxes with leftover cake.
4. They were so good that the over-indulgence did not keep my son from staring lustily at the rest of the cakes.

Joe’s Italian had both savory and sweet perfected, was surprisingly inexpensive, and they sell Nutella by the bucket – so yes, you need to go there.

20. GianMarco’s

For my Birthday dinner, we narrowed it down to two new places, and I let Chris surprise me. He chose GianMarco’s, another place that everyone talks about but somehow we’d never visited.

GianMarco’s is tucked away in a residential neighborhood in Homewood, much like Saw’s Juke Joint is in Mountain Brook – if you’re not looking for it or visiting a friend that lives around there, you’ll never happen to find it.

Their dining room is small and intimate with a view of the kitchen a brick pizza oven.

We started with the Mozzarella and Chiapatta appetizer, and I’m positive it was the freshest Mozzarella that either of us have ever tasted.

I ordered Veal Piccata Scaloppini, which was paired with Polenta and Spinach. It was exquisite – I love things with a strong lemon flavor, and the white wine sauce had quite the punch. The Veal was delightful when eaten with the spinach, and the polenta was creamy, buttery, and heavenly. I’m going to have a hard time ordering something different next time.

Chris said that he needed a baseline understanding of the restaurant before branching out, so he got…Spaghetti. As I chided him, he admitted that it was the only way he could try their sausage and meatballs. At any rate, he was happy with his choice, which was a very hearty portion.

I ordered Tiramisu for my birthday dessert, which had such a strong drenching of espresso along the bottom that after a few bites I ended up eating only the top portion only so that I could sleep that night.

Chris got the Apple Crostato, as I knew he would, because it came with cinnamon ice cream. He will never turn away cinnamon ice cream.

And the winner of Round Five is…

Italian in general. But if I had to pick, GianMarco’s.

And for the Bonus Feature, a most unique dish that you need to try:

Kibbeh, Kibby, Kibbee, or Kibbe depending on your spelling preferences. It is my newest obsession, my favorite find, and a common occurrence in my cravings.

It’s somewhat like Middle-Eastern Meatloaf, made with ground lamb or beef, wheat bulgar, pine nuts, and onions. It’s typically served with Tabbouli, which is a fantastically flavorful middle-eastern salad, as well as Greek yogurt.

I’m not going to say it’s the prettiest dish you’ll ever see, but it’s amazing.

The two places I would recommend trying it are The Pita Stop, which I like because of their generous portion of Tabbouli and a taste of Hummus to add to the mix,

and Nabeel’s, who has a remarkably moist beef version, but you have to be determined to catch it because it’s usually only available on Thursday.

So go eat, people. And tell me about your tasty finds.

The Résumé of Motherhood.

October 18, 2013October 18, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Parent of the Year, Utter Silliness

Job History:

January 2007 – Acquired first subject, female, a screamer. Survived eight months of aural infliction, finding my groove somewhere in late 2007.

December 2010 – Added a secondary subject, male, a epidural killer. Birthing him hacked five years off the end of my life, but I chose perseverance.

Education:

None. Or at least none that applies – Accounting degrees don’t do much for properly handling temper tantrums or planning feeding schedules. Why don’t they have a major in Motherhood?

Skills and Job Titles:

Pediatric Bowel Management – Can track at least two children’s fecal status to ensure that no medication or other assistance is needed. Upon realizing that it is possible that a child hasn’t pooped in seven days, does not balk at the prospect of calling a babysitter to ask if said child pooped while they were there four days ago.

Related Tasks:

Children’s Chemist – Can mix a batch of Miralax with Precision and efficiency.

Sippy Cup Sommelier – Can convincingly sell any beverage, with or without medication.

“This extra-chilled blend has a robust flavor of 100% apple juice and is only cut by a small portion of fresh spring water. What? Medicine mixed in? Definitely not!!”

Nasal Janitor – Can handily retract mucous and phlegm from the sinus cavities of an infant or child, and does not gag when observing the retracted product.

Dental Extraction Specialist – Takes on the challenge of pulling a loose tooth with the fervor of popping a ripe zit. Prefers an agreeable subject, but can work with any situation up to and including a kicking biter.

Magic Eight Ball – Can answer dozens of ridiculous questions from children with convincing certainty.

“If we don’t pull my tooth tonight will I swallow it?”
“Signs point to yes.”

“Why do red and blue make purple?”
“Reply hazy try again.”

“Will Jesus come back before I have to go to college?”
“Cannot predict now.”

“Why is that man wearing a red shirt?”
“You may rely on it.”

Serial No Sayer – No Saying Skills top out at 85 npm with very few misspeaks.

Experimental Biologist – Has successfully diagnosed and treated numerous and insatiably nasty stomach bugs, The Grandparent Effect, poor appetites, fever-induced-sleeplessness, tomato sauce allergies, and teething irritability.

Seasoned Pitch Man – Can convincingly sell children on eating mashed cauliflower, going to the dentist, shopping for Mommy, and that the chocolate hidden in the pantry is not suitable for children.

Affirmation Specialist – Can sincerely compliment a page of scribble (“Oh what a lovely rose garden!”), bad spelling, a heart cut-out that looks like a lung, and clothing combinations so dissonant that even Lady Gaga would gasp.

Career Aspirations:

– Quiet

– Sleep

– Having the opportunity to sip my coffee on the porch swing every morning before having to say a single word, read a book (not out loud and not Dr, Seuss), and get a haircut.

– That I won’t completely screw up my kids.

– More quiet. And more sleep.

Salary Requirements:

You couldn’t begin to afford me.

What would be on your résumé?

Dear Martha: You’re Right About Bloggers.

October 16, 2013October 21, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Blogging: the therapy., I'm a Blog Geek

Martha Stewart, who was quite the charismatic and humorous speaker at BlogHer 2012, where she said that she was honored to share her birthday with us, had some choice words to say about bloggers this week.

Really, you absolutely must watch the video to fully grasp the fantastic derision in her words. But let’s review.

Stephanie Ruhle: “Is there an argument to be made that maybe social media is in poor taste?”

Martha Stewart, interrupting excitedly: “Oh – oh I DO have a minor gripe about that too. Because WHO are these bloggers? They’re not trained editors at Vogue magazine! I mean there are bloggers writing recipes that aren’t tested that aren’t necessarily very good, or are copies of everything that really good editors have created and done. So, bloggers create a kind of um, a, um, popularity but, they are NOT the experts! And we have to understand that.”

So Martha, I would like to say that you are correct.

At least about one thing.

We are NOT the trained editors at Vogue Magazine.

We are better.

And here are ten ways we treat our readers better than Vogue Magazine does theirs, or you yours for that matter.

1. Instead of finding child models for our photos, we use our own kids. And sometimes, those kids are angrier and/or dirtier than our reader’s kids, giving them hope that perhaps they’re not the worst Mom out there.

2. Sure, we tell them about our crafting projects gone right at times, but they can get that kind of overdone perfection in any doctor’s-waiting-room-copy of an old Martha Stewart Magazine. So we’re also willing to show our projects gone very, very wrong.

3. Half our content isn’t ads. Or at least it shouldn’t be.

4. We assure them that they are not weird or slowly going insane. Did you know that in fact everyone’s breast pump talks to them? It does. And I bet neither Vogue nor Martha ever told them that.

5. We show them what we really let our kids eat – and that they lived through it.

6. Speaking of food, anyone can put together a perfectly coifed tablescape. But will anyone show what a typical toddler tablescape looks like? I’ve never seen this in Martha Stewart Living, but I bet they’ve seen it in their home.

7. We all know that if you have a test kitchen and 20 professional chefs, you too can make gorgeous, identical, intricately decorated, picture-perfect anything. That’s why you need bloggers – to show you what they’ll probably look like if you try to make them.

8. If we do give DIY instructions and our readers can’t figure out how the heck to make that chevron pattern line up, we actually answer their questions. Good luck getting tech support from Vogue or Martha.

9. Vogue shows you how to dress using size negative 4 models. If we give you advice on how to dress, we use actual female human beings.

10. We properly warn of the nasty underside of attempting crafts with children. I am positive that if Martha even allows children in her magazines, they get scrubbed between shots.

So Vogue can keep their trained editors and we will keep our bloggers. And Martha might should reconsider using her most repulsed tones and grand sweeping generalizations about an entire people group. If for no other reason, so that her PR team can create a bit more genuine retraction.

Update: Martha had another non-apology attempt to save face with this tweet:

So let’s do a quick recap of Martha’s words:

a. Bloggers are not the experts,
b. Bloggers are stealing the expert’s ideas,
c. Bloggers inspire Martha the most.

Therefore, we can clearly deduce that Martha is stealing our ideas.

The Zulily Digest.

October 15, 2013October 15, 2013 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Utter Silliness, Weird Strange and True, Zulily

STOP READING THIS POST.

As much as I adore you all ingesting what I have to say, I cannot with good conscience allow you to read any further before you log onto Zulily and buy something specific. RIGHT NOW.

Because almost every day I get an email from a reader.

“Pardon me, Rachel, but do you have any idea where I can buy an inflatable Alpaca?”

And almost every day I have to answer,

“Why no – I’ve scoured the internet myself and they’re just not out there! I have no idea why.”

BUT NO LONGER DOES THIS GREAT INJUSTICE OF HUMANITY PERSIST.

So make haste – go claim one of those precious jewels that is just waiting to be an Alpaca-shaped container for your hot breath.

Okay – if you’ve secured your shipment, we can continue.

Nothing looks more classy while escorting your inflatable Alpaca than off-the-shoulder plaid.

And if you feel like your tank tops aren’t working hard enough to merit their spot in your wardrobe, then I have found the tank for you.

Thanksgiving wear is also a big deal on Zulily, which is great since I don’t have a single “Thanksgiving Outfitters” store in my city. And if you didn’t have anything to be thankful for already, there is a high supply of Thanksgiving Maternity Wear this year. Because there’s a shortage of punny conversation starters to use with pregnant women around the holidays.

There are so many choices that 2013 pregnant woman will probably feel the need to celebrate both Canadian and American Thanksgiving.

(Don’t tell them they already missed one.)

Also, what pregnant woman doesn’t have a Black Friday Shopping shirt? Because there’s nothing I like better while housing another human beneath my skin than fighting insane hoards of women for cheap DVD players.

And then there are the children. Every mother has this struggle every year – how should I dress the children for Thanksgiving?

Zulily has got your back. And theirs, too.

Dress them just like their Father, Zulily says.

And don’t forget to add that certain spiciness to their hair with The Winner of 2013, Pumpkin.

And then there’s your creepy Great-Uncle-Twice-Removed – he deserves to be outfitted properly, too!

“Hey Kids – pull my gobbler.”

And for the runner in your life, Zulily has a special treat.

It all makes monogrammed pumpkins look so ridiculously ubiquitous in comparison, doesn’t it?

Even combining The Three Most Overhyped Things of our decade – Chevron, Monograms, and Pumpkins – seems like a fantastic idea after Tennishoed-Turkey-Head.

And that’s how they get you, America.

Don’t fall for their Good Zulily, Bad Zulily tactics.

But do buy your brother’s new baby a pair of red hairy leopard shoes. Because there’s no better way to show her that you’re going to be her BEST Aunt.

Also, for the toddler that craves that poopy-diaper-lump look all the time, they’ve got Rosette Bloomers.

But if she wants that lump with REAL style, you must go with this complete outfit, that covers the head and butt, but disturbingly not the rest.

“Perfect for family trips to Las Vegas!”

But don’t worry! Zulily doesn’t just provide ways for your little girl to grow up way too fast – they’re here for your son, too.

(Not to say that I wouldn’t totally put one of those on Noah – if only he’d let me.)

Zulily loves enhancing your life. They have many options, including the bubble butt you’ve always wanted available in options “Boob Butt” and “Long Butt”,

Boobles for up top, and most puzzlingly, hip bubbles.

Because widening Side-Butt is a major desire for so many of us.
And of course, Zulily is ready with stocking stuffers for your husband.

Let’s think this through for a minute.

Zulily does not normally sell men’s items, and so therefore, one can assume that all of the men’s items that are sold on Zulily are bought by women for their man. I may be wrong, and I offer my deepest apologies to the .0001% of Zulily customers that are indeed male. However, if we continue on with my assumption for a minute, then we have to conclude that if any of these were sold, an awkward conversation like this happened at some point,

“Honey, I ordered these for you because I’d really love it if your manhood was more…apparent when we went out to dinner.”

Zulily: Making us all feel violently uncomfortable since 2009.

Speaking of, if you ever wished your eyelashes looked more like cranial piercings, they’ve got that.

And I would like to point out that this ad is for the WIG.

And finally, let’s leave it on a smocked note. Because nothing makes a better catcher’s mitt for pureed peas and carrots than a stark white bib – with embroidery and thousands of carefully crafted germ receptacles.

Thank you, Zulily, for adding more “What the crap?!” to everyone’s holiday season.

Special thanks to Heather and Christen for contributions to this edition of Zulily Finds.