Rachel Callahan

Sunset Therapy.

August 20, 2013January 31, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Bit More Vulnerable Than I Usually Am, Dysautonomia, I Love Birmingham, I Play at Photography, On a more serious note. . ., Thoughts about Faith

My summer sunset obsession has not been by accident.

I don’t think I fully realized that until last Sunday night, when at the last minute, Chris asked me out on a date. I scrambled to find a babysitter for the kids and readily agreed – he seemed like he had a plan, and I do like a man with a plan.

We left an hour before sunset, he bought me a frosted coffee, and then began driving up and down the slightly precarious mountain roads surrounding Birmingham.

“We’re going to find the perfect sunset viewing spot. It’s all in the angle, the lining up with the sun and the city, and at a place that won’t chase us off.”

(Because the most known City-Sunset-Viewing road just posted a vast collection of signs declaring “no trespassing” and “private property” and “absolutely no parking.” Although my husband toyed with blaming me for the street’s overreaction, very few of my sunset photos have come from that road.)

We drove up one road that was nearly breaking in half – it was alongside the mountain that they cut through to create an interstate bypass many decades ago, and apparently it had flown under the radar of re-paving ever since.

We made it to the top and there was a house on either side – both with awkwardly padlocked gates.

Apparently, city views attract paranoid hermits.

We carefully picked our way back down that road, around a curve, and down another road. Although road number two had a great view, it also had zero curb and a sheer kudzu-covered drop-off, getting it notated as a road that was only meant for photos-on-the-go.

Chris crossed Southside and went to the other side of the Red Mountain Expressway. We began zig-zagging up and down the roads hanging off the side of the mountain as the sun got lower in the sky. We finally starting striking paydirt (in sunset currency), and he began insisting that I hop out of the car, take a test photo, then hop back in.

Stop one housed a great angle, but had an excess of shrubbery.

But it had just stopped raining, so the mist coming off of the city really added to its appeal.

“Is it perfect for tailgating the sunset?”

“Nope – too many bushes.”

“Okay – get back in the car.”

I jumped back in and he kept driving, following a well-mapped plan that he had created earlier.

Stop two had a fantastic peek-a-boo view, but not the spacious skylines we were looking for.

Stop three happened when Chris noticed a Sunset-View Duplex for sale and was asking about it. Its view was not bad at all, so I had to talk him back in the car and out of moving our family instantaneously.

After a few more unsuccessful attempts to find “The Perfect New View”, Chris asked, “Are you having fun?”

“Yes, but are you? I know you know that I like sunsets, but I want you to have fun on our date, too!”

“Of course I’m having fun! I’ve always loved city views – you know that. And anyway, I know how happy they make you, and how they cheer you up, so I love to do this.”

I quietly pondered this statement in my heart.

He was right – I had found great joy and comfort in sunsets this summer, and in chasing the view.

It’s been a very uncertain few months for me, as I shared Monday. I’ve had so little control over my own energy, well-being, and ability to function that the distraction and joy of taking photos of my beautiful city has been my coping mechanism – and I had no idea.

I was finishing up pondering this realization when Chris drove up to the most common sunset view – the newly forbidden one.

I didn’t dare get out, but snapped a test shot as we drove by. Not bad, but an unwelcoming sunset is not a happy sunset.

And so we drove to our happy place – our favorite road that had as of yet not forbidden our entry.

We walked through the blessedly open gates and up their moss-covered street,

Caught a glimpse of the view that was to come,

And knew that this was where we were supposed to be tailgating the sunset.

The city was aglow as the sun dipped down into the clouds,

And we were delighted to hear romantic jazz music wafting clearly up the hill – there was a concert in the park directly below us, and we had the best seats in the house.

I asked Chris if he knew that we would be serenaded on our sunset date. He should have seriously considered taking credit, but he said it was a surprise for him as well.

I took pictures of the sunset as it morphed and lowered,

He took pictures of me.

He also insisted on a double-selfie. And this time, I didn’t mind – for a date like this, he deserved a little cheesiness.

We stayed as the sun made it’s final descent,

and as the city lights became the backdrop for the jazz still climbing the hill to make its way to us.

And as a peace came over me, I realized that this sky I had been chasing actually did have something to say to me: If God can make his sunsets new and fantastic every day, then He can make me new every day as well.

And if He puts half the care into taking care of me as He does each night’s sunset, then I’m going to be okay, no matter what happens next.

Later, God led me to the perfect verses to confirm what He had been speaking to my heart.

So I will continue to sit high upon that rock and chase as many sunsets as I need to.

Where I’ve Been This Summer.

August 19, 2013November 16, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Bit More Vulnerable Than I Usually Am, Actually Possibly Informational, Dysautonomia, Writing WAY Out of my Comfort Zone

My symptoms first started in June. For a couple of nights in a row, when laid down to go to sleep, I had chest pain, pressure that felt like my lungs were collapsing, and a lot of trouble breathing. Naturally, these symptoms also kept me from sleeping well. I first went to the Doc in the Box, who told me I might be dying but he couldn’t do anything about it because it was Sunday, after all. I foolishly returned to that same DitB three days later, but saw a different doctor, who diagnosed me with asthma, based solely on the fact that I couldn’t breathe as hard as I should be able to.

Like a good little patient, I got an inhaler and began using it. Not so helpful.

A couple of days later, my original symptoms had gotten worse, and added to them were two instances of blacking out, not really a great hobby to frequent when home alone with two children who are small and/or self-absorbed enough to be completely disinterested in the fact that their mother went from standing to crumpled.

A few days later, I was able to get an appointment with a specialist at a very highly regarded clinic here in town. Over several long weeks, they tested me for pulmonary problems and heart failure, along with a variety of blood tests, but everything came back normal except for a jumpy and at times abnormally high pulse.

During that time period, I had good days and bad. I had a minor wreck, most likely caused by the growing disorientation that I was experiencing. I added to my symptoms panic attacks (but only in my sleep, creatively enough), and had a couple of hallucinations, where things that weren’t moving all of a sudden were. There was a lot of head pressure and pain, and my difficulty breathing and lightheadedness grew worse.

But the worst part was my rapidly decreasing ability to process life. Chris would mention a friend’s name and I would have zero idea who he was talking about. Writing became excruciatingly painful, and my creative spigot slowed to a trickle. I couldn’t make myself do fun things with the kids, because I didn’t have the energy or the ability to interact in chaotic situations.

Thankfully, one of my best friends suggested that I look into Dysautonomia – her sister-in-law had it, and my symptoms sounded identical. I reluctantly Googled my health (something I had desperately been trying to avoid), and was shocked. It explained every single different thing I was feeling, including even the eye problems and anxiety I had struggled with at the beginning of the summer.

Everything.

A week later, another friend mentioned her own Dysautonomia on Facebook. So I messaged and quizzed her relentlessly about her symptoms. Again, identical.

From what I gathered, Dysautonomia is a nervous system disorder (and therefore can affect many systems at once as I was experiencing), and one of its main physical markers is the inability of the heart to react to changes in gravity (laying, sitting, standing), made apparent by low blood pressure and high pulse upon change. So I bought a blood pressure cuff and began tracking for myself.

On the days when I didn’t feel good, my blood pressure would be super low (90/50), and on the days where I felt fine, it would be normal (110/70).

I started tracking this a week before my next appointment and reported the findings to my doctors. Autonomic issues had also been on their possibility list, so they gave me a simple test: lay down, take my blood pressure, stay laying down for five minutes, then stand up, immediately taking my blood pressure again. I had an “autonomic response,” meaning that my body did not adapt, and my pulse increased to try to keep my blood flowing.

For the next couple of mornings, I tested myself when I woke up. I’d take my blood pressure while laying down, then again when I stood up (slowly, so I didn’t black out.) My resting pulse was already high (70+), but it would still nearly double every time (120-135) just from standing up.

All of the head pressure and constantly feeling faint made so much more sense.

My doctors currently have me in the testing process to determine if another disease is causing my autonomic issues, or if it is Dysautonomia itself.

I haven’t started deeply researching Dysautonomia yet, but that’s next on my list. I’m equally surprised by how many women that I know have Dysautonomia and how many people have never heard of it. But what I do know is that Dysautonomia can be completely livable or crippling – there’s no way to tell, and there’s no cure. If it’s bad enough, there are heavy medications to try and help make the symptoms better, but my body responds very poorly to almost all prescription medications, so I will be avoiding that if possible.

There are, thankfully, a lot of lifestyle changes that can really help: lessening caffeine, cutting out artificial sugars, drinking ridiculous amounts of water, giving up things that make you lose salt and water (such as carbonated drinks), and getting a lot of rest. I’m doing all of these, and also quickly realizing and avoiding the triggers that make my cognitive symptoms worse.

I’m still having days where I feel normal and days that I can barely function, and mostly days that fall in between those two extremes. On the bad days, drinking even more water and taking Sudafed (to raise my blood pressure) helps sometimes. But on most days, it’s taking me twice as long to accomplish things (especially writing and all that goes with it.) Additionally, Ali and I will be starting school next week, and I am praying that I have the energy and presence of mind to teach her diligently.

I’m in a very uncertain stage as to what this all means. I hope and pray that in a few months, I can say that I’ve figured out what works for me and that my symptoms are completely under control. But until then, I might move at a slightly slower pace than usual.

An update can be found here.

Karama Gifts – Sharing Dignity. {$100 Giveaway}

August 15, 2013August 15, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Giveaways and Contests

Whenever I listen to missionaries share or watch television shows about the plights that face the continent of Africa, I am overwhelmed. So much pain, injustice, corruption, poverty, and decades of cruelty and abuse – especially to women. So many of their stories are nearly unbearable – HIV, human trafficking, losing children in childbirth due to incompetent medical care, and the complete lack of societal infrastructure that would allow so many to thrive.

I always walk away wanting to do something immediately, but fearing that it would never be enough – or the right thing – or make it to the right people.

But when I hear about people that are making a difference, on the ground, with the people, in the right places, it brings indescribable joy to my heart.

Karama is one of those organizations. It was started by one of you – a blog reader, Dyan.

Dyan and her family are currently missionaries in Tanzania, but while they were in Ethiopia, she saw the determination and drive that many so women possessed to support their families. They would do anything to provide food and education for their children, but the healthy opportunities to make a living were so few. So Dyan began to help them create beautiful items, and gave them the means to sell their creations – through the Karama website and trunk shows in the US.

This vision of Dyan’s gives women the chance for dignity – something we too often take for granted in the United States. And God has blessed her efforts – through multiple learning and crafting centers in five different African countries, women are taught skills and educated on how to support themselves and their family with their craft.

They now make scarves, dresses, jewelry, handbags, notebooks, and much more – and each item is unique, beautiful, and extraordinarily well-made.

I was so excited when Dyan shared Karama’s website with me. I quickly ordered a necklace and purse, and they truly delighted me.

I bought this weekender bag, and it has made a great everyday purse/diaper bag/holder-of-all-my-kid’s-crap. The geometric print drew me in – I’m a complete sucker for line art, after all.

It’s made from thick, two-ply fabric – much thicker than similar bags I’ve bought off of Etsy, and it was less expensive, at only $35! It has a pocket on the inside, and an extra-wide, luxuriously comfortable shoulder strap that makes it feel infinitely lighter than my last purse. They have several other designs and colors that I’m now itching to add to my collection.

My purse was made by the Mabinti group, which is located in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and works to rehabilitate the lives of women who have suffered the devastation of fistula, have received surgery, and are healing. Fistula is a complication due to prolonged childbirth that leaves a woman incontinent and thus ostracizes her from her community and devastates her life.

Mabinti trains these ladies in sewing and life skills so that they can start their own business once they leave the 18-month program. After finishing the course, each woman is supplied with a starter kit containing a sewing machine, scissors, beading tools and a supply of fabric and beads.

I also bought a zulugrass beaded necklace in a beautiful dark periwinkle mixed with many other hues of blue, purple, and pink.

I am crazy about the beads, but my favorite part of this necklace is that it’s adjustable from 13” to 30”. I’m constantly trying to find the correct length of necklaces for different necklines, but this one takes all of the work out of it – I just adjust until it’s perfect and go.

My necklace was created by the Leakey Collection, which is employing Maasai women in rural Kenya to make these beautiful products from repurposed materials.

Karama represents over 25 groups of artisans, and many of the groups consist of physically disabled or HIV+ ladies. But all of the groups are employing marginalized individuals in need of sustainable work. The artisans are then able to feed their families and send their children to school through the work they receive.

Karama’s creations would make fantastic gifts for Christmas and Birthdays, because you’re gifting the recipient and women and families in Africa. But I have found that it takes a lot of the guilt out of buying for myself, too – because after all, I’m helping someone else!

I have also bought two $50 Gift Certificates for Karama products to give away to two of you. If you’d like to enter, this one’s easy: just visit Karama’s site, then come back and tell me one item that you loved.

Also, Karama has given me a coupon code to share with all of you – use “OBJECTIVITY” to get free shipping! I’ll also add this graphic to my sidebar for easy locating later.

This giveaway will be open until Monday, August 26 and I’ll announce the winners on my Giveaway Winner’s Page on Tuesday, August 27. Best of luck, and enjoy Karama’s site!

Disclosure: I was not compensated in any way for this giveaway, and bought the prizes myself in order to support this ministry. Karama is fantastic and I highly recommend that you check it out – that includes you, FTC!

More Uncomfortable in a Week of Uncomfortable.

August 14, 2013August 14, 2013 Rachel Callahan Guest Post, I embarrass myself just for your amusement.

I am guest-posting at my friend Katherine’s fantastic blog Grass Stains today. I’ve known Kat since the year I started blogging, 2008. We met at a Blogger Party and chatted for quite some time, realizing that we had the same Pediatrician and bonding over how awesome she was.

Then we didn’t speak again for two years.

(During that time, I might have assumed that Katherine couldn’t stand the thought of me, because that’s my natural assumption regarding the feelings of all people toward me.)

Anyway. Turns out, she didn’t hate me, and now we’re close friends. On her blog, she has a regular series called Uncomfortable Truths, where she shares her most awkward inner thoughts, secret OCD compulsions, and general meanderings that often fall into the “TMI” category.

(And Katherine knows how to do TMI right, since she’s most famous for accidentally sharing her hemorrhoids on Instagram and other hemorrhoid tales of woe.)

(Katherine’s blog is best read on an empty stomach.)

But, lucky me, she asked me to write five of my own uncomfortable truths, insisting that they MUST make me squirm at the thought of sharing them.

I won’t say that mine compete with Katherine’s tidbits of gold, but I did come up with five uncomfortable truths, and she published them today. So head on over and get to know my weird side a little better, then go back and read some of Katherine’s own Uncomfortable Truths – you’ll be glad you did.

An Explanation Of Uncomfortable Sorts.

August 13, 2013August 12, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Storytime

Leaving off from yesterday’s story, Chris’ Mom arrived and took over for me so that I could go to my doctor’s appointment.

At the end of my visit, they sent me down to the lab to get several vials of my precious blood stolen from my arms.

Two lab techs met me at the door – a young male and an older female. The older female was nervously dropping paperwork and forgetting the young male’s name as she tried to introduce everyone.

Which is when I noticed her Community College student ID on her thin paper jacket.

They sat me in one of their blood-extraction chairs and then conversed quietly amongst themselves.

Him: “Have you done one today?”

Her: “No, but I just don’t know if I can.”

Him: “Yes, but you’ve got to practice.”

Her: “But…”

He looked at me and asked, “Do you mind if she draws your blood? She’s a new student.”

I have a disorder in my brain that forces me to try to be overly brave in situations such as these. So I said “Not at all! I have fantastic veins. In fact, I hear they’re my best feature.”

(Which is true, by the way. I’ve never given blood or gotten an IV without getting an ego boost from the raving compliments and vein adoration. Phlebotomists everywhere love me.)

But she had a look of sheer horror and said, “I don’t know…”

I reassured her. “Seriously. I have great veins. And I don’t mind getting stuck. You can do it!”

“Okay, okay.”

I smiled at her young male tutor, feeling a bit sorry for him and his task. He smiled back.

She looked at us both suspiciously. “Do you two know each other?”

“Nope.”

She raised a Momma eyebrow. “Then WHY are you smilin’ at each other?? Is there somethin’ funny that I don’t know about?”

I wiped all friendly smiles off of my face for fear of needle-tinged retribution.

She began nervously mumbling under her breath.

“Okay which vials do I need? An orange, an yellow, and a purple. Where are my gloves? See I can’t even get my gloves on I’m so nervous! What do I do next? Oh yes – tie on a tourniquet. Oh! I need a needle.”

She glanced down at my arm.

“Ooooh those are some nice veins! Can you see those?”

Male Tech glanced over her. “I can see them from here. You can’t miss!”

She seemed to take courage in my AWESOMENESS and began to move toward my arm with her needle. I looked away. I can usually watch, but I have never been so afraid of getting squirted in the eye.

She ever so slowly and trepidatiously and therefore quite painfully stuck my arm. It seemed as if she hadn’t gotten to the class where they teach The Band-Aid Principal.

She fumbled around to reach the first vial.

At an even slower pace, she stuck the vial onto the connector. My magnificent blood quickly filled the vial and she removed it and laid it on the minidesk where my arm was resting.

Where it immediately rolled off.

I managed to make a quick grab for it with my unstuck limb and caught it just in time, handed it to her mentor, and tried not to smile at him.

She didn’t notice my valiant efforts on her behalf, as it was taking all of her focus to connect the next vial.

Vial Number two was nearly full when she looked up at me and lost her concentration. The needle retracted from the hole in my arm and, thanks to her mad tourniquet skills, I morphed into Old Faithful.

She squealed and grabbed at gauze and tried to sop at my geyser, all while repeating “I can’t ever do it right. I can do everything else but I just can’t do this. I can’t do it, I can’t.”

I soaked through the gauze and she found more, and finally her mentor reached over her head and released my tourniquet, effectively shutting off my spigot o’ blood.

As she tried to get my gauze secured, he coached her. “You’ve just got to be firm. Hold it in there. Jab the patient. Don’t be afraid of hurting people!”

She looked up at him with shock.

“Hurtin’ people???”

“Yes. You’re going to hurt people. You have to be okay with that.”

“Well I can’t do it again. I just can’t. You finish her.”

I tried to comfort her as I dutifully gave him my other arm, which he didn’t even bother to tourniquet. He was done in two seconds – poke, suck, done.

And that’s how I got matching needle tracks on my arms, Mom.

Mortal Kombat, Mommy-Style.

August 12, 2013August 11, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck

We were having a perfectly lovely morning at home,

doing the usual routine of “I wanna go outside!”, “I wanna go inside!”, “I wanna go outside!”, “I wanna go inside!” (my kids haven’t internalized the oppressive heat and humidity of an Alabama August and are always so surprised when confronted by it), when, upon one of our trips inside, a very unwanted guest joined us.

A cockroach.

My mortal enemy.

My nemesis.

My one true phobia.

The only thing that can make me scream like I’m being chopped to bits by an Axe Murderer.

(In fact, my husband knows exactly what that scream means. So if I ever am being chopped to bits by an Axe Murderer, he’ll assume it’s a cockroach and come running with a shoe.)

My enemy was clearly dying (he had that drunk stupor about him), but that didn’t stop me from making both of my children jump with my impressive lung capacity.

He stumbled out from under one of the kid’s toys and headed toward MY blanket. The very blanket that I curl up on the couch with every single night as a reward for living another day (and getting the kids in bed.)

“NOT MY BLANKET YOU – YOU – YOU IMBECILE!!!!”

I jerked my blanket up off the floor (where certainly one of my children had carelessly left it after using it for a cape hideout or some other such nonsense) and screamed at him to run the other direction.

So he hobbled off (he might have only had three legs) toward the kid’s train table.

I yelled at Ali. “GET A CUP! GO GET A CUP!!”

“Um, why?”

“BECAUSE I CAN’T KILL HIM BUT MAYBE I CAN TRAP HIM!”

She ran off and came back with a very small bowl. Which meant that my target practice was going to have to be grossly more intimate than that with which I was comfortable.

Somehow all of that passed while he was still on the way across the living room – this roach was clearly a maimed creature. He was crossing under the threshold of the train table when Ali delivered the bowl. I held my breath, furrowed my brow, and slammed the bowl down on top of the Mostly Dead infidel.

And held my breath as I watched to make sure that he was, indeed, enclosed.

I saw his creepy legs and antennas as he explored his new home.

I shuddered.

Ali found that this was a good enough time to question my tactics.

“Why were you screaming about him being on your blanket? I mean, what would he have done to it?”

“Nothing, honey. That’s not the point. You’ll understand one day when your fears fully develop.”

But then I remembered something terrible: I couldn’t just leave him there until Chris got home. Chris’ Mom was coming to keep my kids while I went to the doctor. And a Roach-In-A-Cup is not mentioned in Emily Post’s chapter on The Proper Way To Greet Your Mother-In-Law.

But also, my shame went deeper than that. Chris checked in on me while I was pondering my options, and I shared my true feelings with him.

It’s true. She has more Roach-Killing Skills than any other southern woman, and well over half the southern men I’ve known as well. Heck – Chris won’t even squash one with a paper towel!

I sat on the couch and stared at my prisoner as he climbed the walls, showing me his evil underbelly.

I contemplated sliding poison-laced paper under the edge.

(But I didn’t have any on hand.)

Or throwing him and his container outside as quickly as possible.

(But I don’t want to support the propagation of his species.)

Ali wanted to know what was wrong with me. I explained my dilemma.

She offered to help. “Oh. Well, here’s a baseball bat – it kills things real good.”

I looked at her and her foam bat.

I looked at the intruder.

Finally, I obeyed my husband. I found a manila folder (I needed severe sturdiness at a time like this), gingerly slipped it under the bowl while I hyperventilatingly visualized him escaping and crawling up my arm, then ran to the laundry room, heart beating wildly at the thought of carrying something so intrinsically nasty.

Then I texted Chris back.

But death row didn’t treat him kindly. As I am writing this Saturday afternoon, the prisoner is still in our laundry room, but upside-down-dead in his cell.

I still dare not touch him – it could be an escape ploy.

But the important thing is, my Ninja-In-Law doesn’t know what a complete coward I am. Until she reads this post.

Mooning Birmingham.

August 9, 2013August 8, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I Love Birmingham

Every now and then in various skylines and stories about my city, the subject of Vulcan comes up. And without fail, one or more of you ask:

“Why does Birmingham have the world’s largest cast iron butt overlooking itself?”

Okay maybe you don’t ask it quite like that because maybe you didn’t know that Vulcan is the world’s largest cast iron statue, but you ask about him nonetheless.

(For the record, I’m assuming that he has in his possession the world’s largest cast iron butt since he’s the world’s largest cast iron statue, but you can never be too sure.)

(I mean, there could be some standalone gigantic cast ironing of nothing but a butt out there somewhere, that, when put side-by-side to Vulcan, would far outweigh his muscular masses.)

So anyway. Vulcan.

He’s a strange fellow, because I would daresay that most of us who grew up in Birmingham are so used to his bare buttocks staring us down from the sky that we hardly find it odd – as if all cities are being mooned by some pagan statue or the other.

And what’s stranger even, is that we don’t even think it the slightest bit bizarre that when we were kids (up to the year 1999 I believe), Vulcan held in his outstretched hand this beacon:

When it was green, that meant no one had died in a Birmingham traffic accident that day.

And when it was red, someone had.

I suppose the idea was to remind you to drive safely, but when you’re a kid and not really driving anyway, it was more of a macabre game of sorts – who could spot Vulcan’s light first? Was it green or red?? And then cheering or sadness broke out in the backseat.

(Clearly, these were the days before we had @Spann and @TrafficMike_Bhm to keep us informed of the interstate going-ons without any help from a graven image.)

But now, Vulcan just has a nice violent spear, sending quite a different message (or not) than his former Beacon of Death.

So.

How did we end up with this guy anyway?

The short version is this: Another now-historical landmark, Sloss Furnaces, made him, casting him in iron created out of materials mined from the very mountain on which he now sits, mining that was the reason our city was founded.

(Yes, I know that some of you say that we don’t have “mountains” in Birmingham, but we’re in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains, so I’m going to go with a technicality and call it a Mountain.)

Anyway. He was crafted to send to the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair (because they apparently had much better prizes at their Carnie Games back then) to advertise the fantastic (albeit half-nude) tastes of our city. After the fair, he was shipped back here – all 102,000 pounds of him.

But – turns out, he was a bit too forward thinking for Birmingham at the turn of the century (“Did you notice his buttocks, Margaret??”), so they wouldn’t allow him downtown or on the mountaintop. Instead, they deposited him in the den of iniquity – the state fairgrounds.

(And that was before deep-fried Oreos.)

But they put him together all wonky, arms backwards and everything, then humiliated the poor guy by making him hold various degrading advertising items such as ice cream, cokes, and a…pickle sign.

Can you imagine how insanely furious a 51 ton Iron Man could get about holding a PICKLE SIGN? It’s a good thing this wasn’t a movie, because I can totally see him stomping up our downtown Godzilla-style over the pickle sign.

If that wasn’t demeaning enough, they went on to paint Liberty Overalls on him.

And for that, I will never buy Liberty Overalls.

(Because I’ve bought so many and all.)

Finally, in the 1930’s, they gave the man back his dignity (and his bare butt) and put him atop Red Mountain. Over the years, they’ve restored him and added beautifully to the property, including scenic trails,

luscious and inviting lawns for running,

downtown viewing spots (which are really quite fantastic if you’re turned the right way),

a museum and event space where you can see the aforementioned traffic beacon and go on a scavenger hunt and even make your own Vulcan Penny,

(As long as you promise not to do it with fraudulent intent),

and of course, the observation deck right beneath Vulcan’s butt, which is accessible via an elevator or an abominable number of stairs (triply abominable when carrying a toddler.)

And you know I had to take a downtown photo from the top, right?

Of course I did.

So. When you come visit me one day soon, now you know where we’ll run to work off all the local food I force you to eat. And when we get to the top, you get the bonus of seeing of what your butt now looks like, thanks much to all those stairs.

Zulily Lace and a Pretty Face.

August 8, 2013August 7, 2013 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Smocktastic, Weird Strange and True, Zulily

Hey – you know what?

It’s almost Christmas.

Or at least according to Zulily.

And you do not want to miss out on your one chance all year long to have “Ho Ho Ho” embroidered on your daughter’s butt.

Also. I get that Santa is this nebulous somewhere-between-human-and-angelic-hosts kind of guy, but I still don’t want my daughter professing love for him or anyone else on her hind regions.

And then there’s this piece. There is so much about it that confuses me.

In case you can’t read that lovely font, it says “Santa’s Lil Diva Loves Couture.”

The only explanation I can come up with is that the back says “But my Mommy will only dress me in this so SEND HELP NOW.”

So I guess I won’t be doing my Christmas shopping at Zulily.

However, this would make an awesome baby shower gift.

Can you even begin to imagine the flocks of creeptastic strangers that shirt would magnetize?

This one is much more reflective of the expecting mother’s soul.

Nothing says “We’re your completely normal neighbors” like this lawnsculpting choice:

Also, little is more comforting than the Travelocity Talking Gnome at the edge of your yard.

I just hope that he spontaneously starts conversation with passerby.

The Rooster’s severe neck-cramp is the least puzzling thing about this accessory.

Fanning Roosters aren’t your thing? No worries! There are options!

When it comes to dinnertime, I never feel hungry unless I can eat off of a shoe.

…especially if there is proper toe-division – it really gives that authentic toe-jam feel to my guacamole.

I got a text from my friend Christen one day alerting me to drop my kids right then and hop onto Zulily – she didn’t want me to miss Adult Hooded Footie Pajama Day!

Because nothing says “My Mom still pours my cereal for me” like a fully-grown man in AHFPs.

Or “when I signed up to be a male model, this was not what I envisioned.”

In other news, if Honey Boo Boo were to attend Abby Lee Miller’s dance studio, she would most certainly be wearing these shorts.

And Zulily is doing a fabulous job of recreating the reputation of the whale tail.

My favorite Zulily find ever, the Crotch-Munching Ladybug, is back and cheekier than ever,

And she brought a very hungry friend.

I’m not sure which is worse – those teeth or their insistence of bringing happiness.

The only thing I can assume is that some of these clothes are imported from Venus and they have a very different child-fashion-scene there, where protruding elephant trunks are highly regarded.

And where it’s normal to get your toddler to run on a treadmill, or hop, if they follow the footprints.

(Which includes a calorie counter. Because all toddlers should be tracking.)

Recently, we’ve talked about monogramming. Many times, we’ve talked about smock. So it makes sense that Zulily would pick this very week to combine the two in a glorious upheaval of humanity.

I am positive that the panel of smock on this piece was an afterthought to increase the selling value of the item in question.

But on this one, the smock left no room, so it required a side-monogram. Just in case you forget who that right thigh belongs to.

If you’re looking to get the least bang for your buck on complete and utter un-resaleability of your kid’s items, then by all means – go with a personalized kitchenette.

But of course you’ll need one for each individual kid – after all, only one name fits.

And for the little men monogrammees out there, you’ve always got the option of completely illegible fake ties.

(For the record, I actually am ordering a monogrammed item this week. This cape with an N will be Noah’s.)

But in case you prefer lace over smock and monogram, I found you this.

And this, which includes $43.01 of free lace!

So go dress those babies. And dress them well.

WYSIWYG.

August 6, 2013September 30, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Dysautonomia, Lose It Diet, You Make Great Accountability

Have you ever gotten to that point in your life where you’re so overwhelmed by the number of things that need to change that you’re not sure where to start?

I did – a couple of weeks ago.

And I started by making a list – “Things I Need to Change” – at 2am.

(Because that is the time of day that births all things that are good and holy.)

None of the items on my list were earth-shattering, like, say, “kick heroin addiction” or “stop being a Russian Spy” (because you know that Russia really cares about sunset photos), but they were weighing on me regardless. It included things big and small, from “More priority on time with God and ministry” to “Quit looking at my blog stats so ridiculously often” and many things in between, most notably “budget,” “diet,” and “oh my flippin’ goodness school is about to start and I have no idea how I’m going to find the time to keep doing everything I do.”

So I picked a few and started chipping away, now a bit less anxious because at least I had a list to remind myself of all my other failures lest I forget.

First up: Health.

I needed to make some changes to attempt to aid my ongoing health situation, which perhaps has been more life-altering than I might have let on, and is also to blame for this and any subsequent blog posts that are not up to expectations.

(I keep thinking I’ll tell you the whole story but I keep waiting to have clear answers first so I keep it mostly to myself because it seems a rather dicey decision to throw out undiagnosed health symptoms to the winds of internet diagnoses.)

So. No more artificial sugars, especially in the form of Dr Pepper TEN, my go-to comfort of choice. I am also still attempting to add to that “drink a ridiculous amount of water,” but a girl’s got her limits.

(Because I will NOT have time to do everything else on my List O’ Fails if I am peeing every other second.)

And, back to calorie counting. Because my jeans were beginning to sincerely not appreciate the volume of stretches I was having to do to make them wearable.

(Unfortunately I don’t have a nursing baby, which is the only thing that has ever made me lose weight, so the dieting probably won’t do me any good, but just make me hate everything and everyone like Katherine so eloquently wrote about last week.)

Second up: Budget.

I used to be a complete budgeting freak (I might have even written a super long doubly boring post about it in my crappy early blogging days.) I had been good. I had been dedicated. I balanced our checkbook AND multiple budget categories WEEKLY. And I shared the Gospel of Good Budgeting with others frequently.

But then…life got busy. And we had kids (that were expensive.) And life got busier. And I quit looking at those “budgeted” numbers and tried to ignore that the “actual” numbers were blatantly lapping them.

So I set a plan – a FIXED amount to spend each week on groceries and out to eat, along with other stuff. Chris eagerly hopped on board. And we set off to achieve greatness with less.

The next morning, I took my first back-on-the-wagon grocery trip. And it was FUN again, for the first time since I’d jettisoned my budgeting ways. As I paid, I watched the running total like a hawk.

And I ended up $6.67 under budget.

I felt like an overachieving Project Runway contestant and barely stopped myself from screaming “THANK YOU MOOD!!” for all of Winn-Dixie to hear.

Within my grocery shopping trip, I even planned ahead for the kids’ meals. Not forgetting the little people is a big deal, y’all!

I bought chicken breasts, cooked them with honey and salt, cut them up, and individually bagged them. Then I bagged crackers and cut a block of cheese and…

I MADE MY OWN LUNCHABLES. WITHOUT PINTEREST’S HELP.

They were so impressive I had to take a picture – I didn’t care that I hadn’t moved my knife or my notebook or that bit of counter food that might or might not have been two days old. I was a superstar!!!

Then I cleaned out a fridge drawer (and even wiped it a little) and presented my children with “KID DRAWER.”

They really should have bowed at my feet and kissed them with fervor but they didn’t.

They did, however, enjoy my nitrate-free lunchables enough to ask for them again this week.

The next day, I had to order a couple of things off of Amazon. They were small, and both were add-on items, therefore subjecting me to the “you need to spend $10 more if you want us to ship you these items.”

I lamented.

In the past, this would be no problem. But now, NOW. I was behaving. I was not just spending to spend.

But on a whim, I looked up mine and Ali’s favorite cereal, Crispix, which I’d forgotten to get at the store the day before. Of course, one box was $5.47, which is about a dollar more than the grocery store.

But then I saw it: 14 boxes of Crispix for $20.93?!?!

Surely they were miniature boxes – I went to my pantry to compare ounces just to make sure.

Nope.

Then it’s a mistake – I double checked the fine print.

They insisted that I would receive 14 boxes. For $20.93. Which is $1.495 per box. It was as if God Himself was shining down on my budgeting efforts, and handing me Amazon on a Golden Platter as a reward.

I ordered them with trepidation. What would I receive? Would it be a joke? Would a snake spring pop out to tell me that I was a fool?

But if not, were there more Amazon deals to be found like this??

Two days later, Ali and I opened the box, breath held within us…

They were there!! All fourteen full-sized boxes!! It was amazing. Fantastic. Unbelievable. Receiving a Fragile Leg Lamp wouldn’t have made for more excited people that morning.

I can’t say that these particular boxes of cereal had not been subjected to some sort of nuclear reactor assembly plant malfunction, but we’ll eat them with joy in our hearts regardless.

Editor’s Note: Amazon fixed their pricing mistake(?) within a couple of hours of this post. Sadness. Next time I’ll whisper the deal to you.

Best Practices: On Having a Mommy.

August 5, 2013August 4, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel

A mother is a delicate creature that must be treated with care and devotion. There are certain things that should not be attempted, lest undesirable results be achieved.

1. Never attempt to sit in a Mommy’s lap when she is sitting on the toilet.

2. If one wants a Mommy to hurry up because of some exciting activity about to occur, interrupting a Mommy’s Get-Ready time once per minute to remind her of the urgency at hand is not the way to make that happen.

3. Do not wait directly outside the shower curtain (also known as The Holy Veil of Sanctuary), especially without making any noise. A Mommy does not prefer to pull back the shower curtain to discover that she is two inches from a small child’s expectant face.

4. As satisfying as it may be, a Mommy’s arm is not for pinching, twisting, biting, coloring on, supporting one’s whole body weight on, or dislocating at will. Also, a Mommy can be thrown off-balance by a powerful arm pull much easier than one might imagine.

5. A Mommy’s Coffee is a sacred object. It is not recommended to spill it, interrupt it, attempt to steal it, spill it, or spill it. Also, don’t spill it.

6. If a toddler finds himself in a public bathroom stall with a Mommy, it is not found to be appreciated by said Mommy when the toddler points to her underthings and asks loudly, “Is that your….BIG diaper??”

7. Nothing can make a Mommy go from zero to furious faster than a two-year-old launching out of his car seat when she is on a major highway. Unless said two-year-old is okay being duct taped into his car seat, it is recommended that he discontinue any and all practice of unbuckling himself.

8. Just because a Mommy composes an original song to help you remember when you can and cannot poop doesn’t mean that she wants you to sing it at the top of your lungs when on public transit of any kind, nor does she want you to ask a battery of loud questions such as,

“Can we poop on…our drink?”

“Can we poop on…that man ober derr?”

“Can we poop on…our dinner?”

9. A really bad time to experiment with the concept of hitting your Mommy in the face is when she’s not looking and has already had a headache for approximately four hours. This may be made more detrimental if your Daddy is anywhere nearby at the time of experimentation.

10. The garbage is a sacred place, a place which only the High Priest Mommy can dictate what may enter in. And the High Priest Mommy has a complete lack of tolerance for things ever coming out of said Sacred Place, especially when placed immediately in the mouth.

What could your kids add to this list?