Rachel Callahan

An Ode to The Duke.

June 24, 2013June 23, 2013 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I Love Birmingham, Photographical Oddities, Utter Silliness

Disclaimer: Not for the Ladylike of Heart.

I’ve been feeling a small measure of guilt recently about our non-existent household rules about “potty-talk.”

Perhaps these rules don’t exist because our children are more polite than us.

For instance, I might have been heard singing the song,

“We wish you a Merry Pooping, We wish you a Merry Pooping. We wish you a Merry Poooooooping….

…..And a happy flush too!”

At which point my daughter interrupted me and told me that those were not polite things to talk about.

“We should only talk about bathroom things when we’re in the bathroom, Mommy. And you were standing outside of the bathroom singing into it.”

“Who taught you that??”

“That’s what Miss Ashley tells AJ. And what Miss Debbie says in Sunday School.”

I might also have recently penned what will certainly be a multi-platinum award-winning single to help my son understand where he can and cannot do such things, roughly to the tune of “I’ve got Joy like a Fountain”…

“We can poop in the potty, we can poop in our diaper, but we can’t poop in the pool or tub…”

You really should hear me belt it out. And it’s even better when we Noah and I sing it in rounds.

Ali, again, is not pleased.

But ultimately the blame is circular, because it is the very act of having children that creates such commonness to poo talk.

I mean, c’mon. Anyone who has spent two years changing diapers and then a year trying to teach a barely-talking-but-very-opinionated two-year-old to go to the trouble of leaving their feces in a cold, hard, cavernous porcelain bowl instead of in the comfort of their warm, soft, familiar diaper has had to come to terms with talking about poo.

A lot.

So with Ali herself to blame (as she gave me plenty to talk about during her potty-training era,) I would like to excuse the fact that, upon noticing a particular bathroom mural for the first time, I giggled with much mirth.

It was a hand-drawn picture of a creepy/goofy man with his title written above him: “Warm Duke”.

The Warm Duke resides in the co-ed bathroom of one of my favorite restaurants. He’s always there to chat with and get a giggle from, playing the part of my very own Birmingham Moaning Myrtle.

For at least a couple of years and perhaps longer, I have always looked forward to visiting The Warm Duke, and would be disappointed if I had to go into the other (also co-ed) bathroom.

It never occurred to me that Chris wouldn’t have noticed The Duke, since he resides directly in front of the toilet at eye level when sitting.

(I forget about boys and their bathroom methods.)

(The same happened when it took me two years to understand why Chris wanted to hang a painting behind the toilet in our first house. Who ever looks at the wall behind the toilet???)

(And then one day I was all like, “Oooooh…”)

So when we were dining there and I casually mentioned The Warm Duke in conversation, I was surprised by Chris’ response.

He choked and asked, “The Warm What??”

“You’ve never noticed The Warm Duke on the wall in the bathroom? Seriously?”

“Um, no…”

“Go. To the bathroom right now. And visit Sir Warm.”

He left…and returned, laughing.

I then left, because I felt the need to say hello, and came back, laughing.

Since Chris’ introduction, we always make sure to invite His Highness into our conversation when visiting that restaurant.

So you can imagine my great distress and devastating feelings of loss when texting with an employee of the restaurant who happened to mention that the bathroom got painted. I don’t know that she was prepared for my visceral reaction.

I immediately began scrolling through my iPhone photos. Even though I was quite confident I had captured a photo of him at some point, the thought of not being able to find it…or worse, of having accidentally deleted it…was too much to bear.

But I couldn’t find him.

So I searched again, mumbling under my breath about being willing to peel the paint off the bathroom walls if I had to.

And couldn’t find him again.

Later that night, I searched again, with the determination of Greta Van Susteren on an exclusive case.

And with much glee in my heart and relief to my soul, I found a photo of him, potentially the only remaining artifact proving his existence.

Sir Warm Duke
circa 2010 – 2013
A Brave Knight, Always Sitting In Front of the Throne.
He Shall Be Missed.

The Downton Connection.

June 21, 2013June 21, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Downton Abbey, Photographical Oddities

{SPOILER ALERT: Vague references to Season Three of Downton Abbey are in this post. Read at your own risk.}

A couple of weeks ago, a reader wrote on my Facebook Page:

I read it, and I puzzled.

She was right – despite my fandom, I had certainly never picked up on a resemblance of my daughter to any Downton Abbey characters.

At least it wasn’t Edith.

And Cora is a beautiful lady (even though she always has the exact same facial expression.)

But as I sat with my phone in hand, pondering how in the world my daughter could look like her, I pulled up a photo of Ali, then found a photo of Lady Grantham.

And gasped.

OHMYGOSH SHE’S TOTALLY RIGHT.

My child is future fiction British Aristocracy.

What could this mean?

How should I train her correctly?

Clearly, I’d be totally fine with her marrying British Royalty. After all, I had my own ambitions of marrying Prince William, but ultimately I decided that the fact that I was six months older than him might make it too weird, so I let him off the hook.

(Plus I imagined the pranks that Prince Harry would come up with would make for a complete bloody mess of a wedding getaway car.)

(And Camilla Parker Bowles as a Step-Mother-In-Law is what Horror-Fairytales are made of.)

(Poor Kate. I should have warned her.)

But back to Ali. The only reason that British Aristocracy ever marries American Women is if the woman in question has a massive family fortune with which the aristocrat can use to save their family estate, and that’s not really going to be possible around here.

(Unless Ali does a better job of saving her $5 allowance, or perhaps sends out royalty support letters.)

So I decided to strategize in a different direction.

Perhaps I should notify the producers of Downton Abbey that my daughter is available for any needs they may have. Such as a prequel of young Cora in the United States. Or perhaps a dream sequence or childhood memory. After all, her wardrobe would be stunning. And I bet they’d let her keep a piece or two for dress-up.

(And I’d get to meet the cast. Which would be way more exciting if they hadn’t KILLED EVERYONE THAT I CARED ABOUT.)

But at least they hadn’t killed Cora. So I knew there was hope for Ali’s future.

As I was pondering all of these things in my heart, we took a trip over the river and through the woods to my parent’s house, and I had the realization of where Ali’s antique soul originated.

This is not a scene from Downton Abbey.

This is my Dad, driving his grandkids around his property.

When she gets her big role, I can be confident that she’ll be chauffeured properly.

The Economics of Denim.

June 20, 2013June 19, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Denim Drama, Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Guest Post, It's Tough Being a Girl, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend

My inbox stays constantly packed with emails of butts in jeans. Texts of butts in jeans. Questions about butts and jeans. I suppose when one is willing to show the world photos of their own butt in dozens of pairs of jeans in multiple posts over five years, people feel comfortable sharing their own butt woes with that person.

And I’m totally cool with that, and answer every single one of them.

But every now and then, I get a real jewel of an email. An email that captures some essence of the Denim Quest that I have not yet covered.

This is one of those emails.

Gina is an American living in Egypt, and after she read my jeans posts, she felt the need to explain to her husband why she needed more jeans. But instead of saying it, she decided that writing him a letter would help him better grasp the gravity of the situation.

I think that all women everywhere can resonate with her explanation, and perhaps use it to help educate their own husband next time they need to go shopping.

To my husband,

To help you better understand women, shopping, and the giant stack of jeans in my closet:

In my closet, I have 10 pairs of jeans. You might think this is plenty… at least for a couple of years.

And I would like to agree with you.

But I can’t, because there are so many factors involved in a pair of woman’s jeans that keep them from being a simple, easily replaced staple in one’s wardrobe.

Let me explain a little bit about my 10 pairs of jeans.

Pair 1 is “Skinny”, specifically designed for wearing only with boots or flats.

Pair 2 I can barely button around my waist, but the legs on them look great with tunics, a staple here in Cairo, so I keep them in my closet but only put them on when I’m wearing a tunic.

Pairs 3 and 4: should only be worn with boots AND tunics because they shrank in the wash. They are now tight everywhere AND short. Boots cover up the shortness nicely, and because the pants are tight, they need a longer blouse to cover the tummy area.

Pair 5 is perfect, and they can be worn with most everything EXCEPT they cannot be worn to dressy events because they are “distressed” (which is ironically also the feeling I get when I survey my current collection of jeans.)

Pair 6 has RIDICULOUS pockets (even YOU admitted to this when you saw them) and I want to toss them out, but they are a 200 dollar pair of designer jeans that were given to me, and I hate throwing out gifts.

Pair 7 is my designated “dressy” jeans. That means they are on reserve, only to be worn now and then to “dressy jeans” appropriate events. Light usage keeps their tone rich and dark, prolonging their fateful demotion to “casual jeans.”

Pair 8 is adorable, and can be worn with most things, but tiny holes are starting to appear at the top of the back pockets, so like my “dressy jeans”, I only wear them every now and then in an attempt to slow down their trip to the trash.

Pair 9 I bought in an unsuccessful attempt to acquire another pair of dressy jeans, but they are actually so long I have to cuff them, and the fabric bags at my knees making me look like I’m sitting down when I’m not. They are just a bad fit all around, but I spent a chunk of money for them, so I hate to throw them out.

(I mostly wear them around the house when no one is home.)

Lastly, pair 10 are capri jeans, which are good for warm, sunny, informal occasions and should only be worn in the summer time (possibly in late spring or early fall.)

Now, with all this in mind, I have to consider these jeans in light of my body weight, which fluctuates monthly (not to mention when dieting.) Therefore, these jeans will look and feel differently at various times of the month – sometimes even at various times within the same week.

So now you see that my jeans are never all available to me at one time. In fact, I’m doing great if one pair fits (literally and figuratively) for the appropriate occasion. To be cliché, not all jeans are created equal. They are designed for various styles, and once in a woman’s closet, will dwell there in various stages of wear and tear. Thus, shopping for jeans is complicated. When a woman shops for jeans, she might be specifically looking to replace a particular pair, but can also at the same time be scouting out possible replacements for jeans that are coming to the end of their life span or the end of their cycle (a cycle such as the migration of a well worn pair of “dressy jeans” into the “casual” category, thus opening up a vacancy for a new pair of “dressy jeans”.)

On top of ALL of this (ha ha – you thought I was finished!): Designers like to tweak the styles just a bit so that their jean designs are NEW and FRESH on a somewhat regular basis. Consequently, a pair that I carefully selected last year and (hallelujah! Still work after 365 days) may not be on the racks, in stock, available for back order, or even selling on EBay. So an equal or better replacement jean is never a guarantee. We ladies buy when and where we can, and we always approach the jeans section with the mindset that we have NO idea if we will find what we are looking for.

Lastly, (as I’ve implied throughout this article) countless other women are in my same dilemma and buying alongside me, creating yet another reason that jeans might be unavailable, sold out, or not within my grasp. That is why women always want to check out the jeans section in stores, even when we just purchased a pair an hour earlier. It’s a race of sorts, with the prize being only temporary for the winner: A pair of jeans that looks good in the dressing room and has the potential to look good after being paid for.

The most frustrating truth of all? This is just a tiny glimpse into our world of clothing. These difficulties are not just with jeans, but with many other items in our wardrobe. However, we are brave, and unwavering in our resolve to keep our wardrobes nice. The clothing search is always on, and as long as husbands everywhere don’t insist we live in nudist camps, we will never give up.

Gina is a writer, studies languages, and is unashamedly passionate about fashion.

She lives with her husband in Cairo and has no children, but they do have a large Siamese cat.

Her favorite phrase in Egyptian Arabic is “Mafish Mushkila”, which means “no worries.”

We All, Like Sheep, Have Crafted Astray.

June 18, 2013July 21, 2020 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Pop Post, Popular Posts

So.

You remember those crafting support letters that Ali sent out?

Well, before I found out about them and had time to text everyone an apology and assure them that they didn’t need to send craft supplies to my beggar daughter, my Mom, who never sees any bad in anyone, had already interpreted the letter for herself.

When I texted her, she immediately called me (because texting is not her preferred method of communication, which is good, since she can’t figure out how to use punctuation, so her texts always leave me paranoid that she’s suffering from depression or worse, hates me.)

(There’s nothing like texting your Mom the best news in the world (“I’m in labor!”) and getting a in return.)

So anyway. She called me and said, “I thought she was asking for a crafting project, you know – like she’s helped me make crafts for Cubbies. I figured she was offering to help me, and I thought it was so sweet of her! So I was thinking about what I need for my bible lessons at VBS that she could make for me.”

Every year, my Mom comes up with elaborate scenes and props and such to help keep the kid’s attention at Vacation Bible School.

Elaborate should have stopped me.

But my Mother’s optimism always rubs off on me (for a moment) and I said, “She can certainly help you with your VBS needs. What were you thinking?”

“Well, I need some sheep masks, but I don’t know if Ali could do them. Do you think she could cut them out of felt and glue fur onto them?”

“I’m sure she could. And if not, I’ll help her.”

Darn rubbing optimism.

She brought me two bags of supplies and an example sheep.

But I personally thought that her sheep looked like a cynical old man rabbit with some seriously loose jowls.

“I need twelve of these sheep.”

“Twelve??”

“Yes. Oh – and there’s only enough felt for ten white ones, so you’ll have to make two black sheep.”

“That’s so token, Mom.”

“Also, with the black felt – I need you to make a bear, too.”

“A bear?”

“Yes. Because the bear costume scares the children too much, and I was thinking a mask might be less traumatic.”

“Do you have a template?”

“No. Just make one up.”

Clearly, my Mother doesn’t remember raising me. Because if she did, she’d have no trouble recalling that I am the most un-artistic person to have ever lived. I cannot even draw a proper smiley face, let alone sculpt a bear face out of felt.

But whatever.

So I inventoried the supplies, and Ali and I decided to try and make a Sheep Mask during her craft time before bed.

We dumped all the stuff out on her craft table, stenciled a copy of Codger-Rabbit-Sheep, cut it out, then tried to style his ears with the felt and fur.

It took all night. And not a minor amount of frustration from me. And a major amount of frustration from Ali regarding the amount of fur flyaways littering her room.

We left all of our supplies on her craft desk in a heap, and I promised to add the eyeholes the next day when I was in a better frame of mind.

The only problem was, Ali decided to Sharpie an outline of eye holes sometime during the night – at all the wrong places.

And really, I couldn’t blame her – because when I walked into her room the next morning, I became immediately high from the scent of E6000 glue left over from the night before. And she had slept in that drug den. It’s amazing she hadn’t crafted our sheep into Puff the Magic Dragon.

So on that first fateful mask, I had to add three tufts of extra fur – to cover up her stoned eyeholes.

It was the least sheep-like costume I’ve ever seen.

And we had to make eleven more.

And a Bear.

In less than a week.

My Mom must have sensed my frustration from afar and called me.

“If it’s too much for you and Ali, I can get Mammaw to make them.”

“YOU CAN’T TAKE A CRAFT PROJECT AWAY FROM ME AND GIVE IT TO MY EIGHTY-FIVE YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER. I’M NOT AN EMBECILE.”

(Or, that’s what I said in my head.)

To Mom, I simply said,

“Oh no!! It’s not a problem at all. We’ve got it all under control! You said…twelve sheep?”

I decided that the assembly line was the way to go.

Trace eleven masks,

Cut out eleven masks,

Cut out twenty-two ear felts,

Cut out eleven noses,

Get Ali to attach ear felts and noses (since that was pretty much all that was on her level to do),

Add annoying and messy fur accents.

I made a few edits, including rounding the ears in hopes of detracting from their rabbit-like persona. And I gave up on the outlining of said ears with fur, because it might have made me cuss once.

(Just a slight suggestion of damnation.)

(But one should never allow themselves to become profane while creating VBS crafts.)

(Or so I hear.)

Also, the constant leaking of the E6000? Was nearly my tipping point.

So I got our eleven masks to this level of success:

But what to do about the prescribed pink eye-markings stumped me. Mom’s template had eye-bags, and I didn’t want a flock of sheep with eye-bags.

So I experimented with eyebrows. But since I didn’t know the bible story in question, I didn’t know what sort of expressions the sheep needed.

Were they skeptical sheep?

Unamused sheep?

Anxious Sheep?

Belligerent sheep?

Depressed Sheep?

Unibrowed Sheep?

Dubious Sheep?

Nicholas Cage Sheep?

Sean Connery Sheep?

(The fumes from the dripping E6000 might have been to blame for the above exercise and uncontrollable giggles that accompanied it.)

Ultimately, I went with blank sheep. Because the whole analogy is that they’re stupid. Right?

(Or perhaps I was just too lazy and/or flustered to cut out twelve pairs of eyebrows by then.)

Ten White “Sheep” and Two Black “Sheep” completed.

And mine did, in my opinion, look 10% more like sheep than my Mom’s, especially when shown on children.

(But mine still looked 45% like a rodent, 18% like a rabbit, and 22% like Sasquatch.)

Then came the bear.

Despite my horrible ability with shapes, I just began cutting.

I was, after all, spent.

But God shone onto my crafting, and I actually cut out a bear-like creature. On my first try. And then figured out how to add bear-like accents. Without any help.

I WAS SO PROUD THAT ALL-CAPS DO NOT BEGIN TO EXPRESS MY SELF-ADMIRATION.

I squealed to Chris and held up my mask.

“You did that. Without googling?”

“YES!!!”

I texted my Mom, excited to get some positive affirmation without the skeptical dubiousness that my husband offered.

She gave me nothing.

(She did call later and remind me that she was attempting to not scare the children. She doesn’t realize that sarcasm can be conveyed via text.)

But I didn’t care. Because it was indeed THE BEST BEAR EVER.

(At least until my E6000 buzz wore off.)

Epilogue:

My mother was extremely gracious about my questionable sheep. The children, however, were not. When the sheep came onto the scene, Mom asked, “What are those?” And one of the children said in a confused voice, “Um…Mice?”

As for the bear, one of Mom’s teenage actresses decided to turn him upside down and become a Walrus.

…which made me even more proud of my original creation – because I had crafted such a fantastically versatile animal.

Birmingham Rocks Their Eyes. {And a Giveaway}

June 17, 2013November 12, 2013 Rachel Callahan Giveaways and Contests, I Love Birmingham

On Saturday, I had my fifth eye appointment in a month.

Although I don’t wear contacts or glasses (except for reading…sometimes), my eyes can be real divas. And what’s worse, I’ve recently found out that I’m a “reactor” to most eye medications, especially steroids.

(Which means that the pressure in my eyes increases to an unbelievably painful level when using certain eyedrops.)

Thanks to two bouts of Bacterial Conjunctivitis (non-contagious Pink Eye) and three allergic reactions, my doctor has had to get really creative in treating me. And I have a much greater appreciation for the art of eye care.

So it made me happy to find out that Birmingham is on the top of the list for a newly released index on the Eye Health of our nation.

VSP is the largest not-for-profit vision benefits company in the United States, and they began analyzing claim data in 2012 to recognize the top cities whose citizens are getting eye exams as part of their healthcare routine. In addition to helping identify vision correction needs, eye exams also help ensure that the eyes and body are healthy, as eye doctors are often first to detect signs of serious health conditions like diabetes, high blood pressure and high cholesterol.

Not only was Birmingham #7 nationally, but they just announced that we were also #1 for Women’s eye health – because we’re awesome like that! Here were the top 10 cities for women’s eye health:

1. Birmingham-Hoover, AL
2. Central CA
3. Bakersfield, CA
4. Greenville, SC
5. Lansing-Grand Rapids, MI
6. New Orleans Area, LA
7. Jacksonville, FL
8. Memphis, TN
9. Richmond, VA
10. The Greater Sacramento Area

Women are more susceptible to eye health issues (I know how sensitive mine are), so I’m glad we’re getting them checked out around here.

To celebrate our city’s health, VSP is giving away a pair of beautiful designer sunglasses to one of you, and the good news is, you don’t have to be a Birminghamian to win! I can’t say the name brand, but I personally selected them, and they’re GORGEOUS.

(Besides the fact that they retail at $200.)

If you would like to be entered to win a pair of Designer Sunglasses, simply comment on the post and tell me whether you wear contacts, glasses, both, or nothing – you guys know I love me some statistics.

That’s it! This giveaway will be open until Monday, July 1, and the winner will be announced on my Giveaway Winners Page on Tuesday, July 2.

Best of luck!

Disclaimer: This is a sponsored post by VSP. All opinions are my own.

A Two-Seater and A One-Seater.

June 16, 2013June 16, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, The Blissfulness of Life

Are we not like two volumes of one book?

~Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

Pinterexia Nervosa: A Diagnostic Guide.

June 13, 2013October 30, 2013 Rachel Callahan It's Tough Being a Girl, Let's Talk about The Internet, Rachel's "Brilliant" Marketing Ideas, Utter Silliness

Pinterexia Nervosa is a body/home image disorder in which people have an intense anxiety over ensuring that their life is completely pinnable at any moment. This disease is most often diagnosed in women and most prevalent post-childbirth, as the quantity of contractible symptoms grow when children are involved.

What are the Symptoms of Pinterexia Nervosa?

An inability to pass a home improvement store without peeking around back to forage for used pallets to knock one more item off of that “50+ Wooden Pallet Projects” to-do list.
Rainbow-Color-Order Ombre hair. Especially when matched with an ombre dress, shoes, or purse.
Having different yet detailed scenes or patterns painted on each fingernail, and changing out said scenes more than two times per week.
(Toenail or fingernail monograms are a sign of Advanced Pinterexia. Seek medical help immediately.)
Housing more than five burlap and/or chevron projects per room.
The inability to eat a meal, a sweet, or a saltine cracker without taking a picture of it, then adding three filters in at least two different apps.
(Note: This may also be a sign of Instagrammia – talk to your doctor to understand the differences.)
A canvas-mounted photograph larger than two feet wide of your four children all wearing white linen and lying on top of each other in a “sleeping” heap.
More than five different homemade concoctions for washing your hair, your laundry, your colon, or your Shih Tzu.
Getting a tattoo just so that you can photograph and pin it.
(Note: Stage Two Pinterexia can create the need to photograph and pin said tattoo before the redness and swelling subside. Stage Three Pinterexia may compel you to photograph and pin your tattoo before even wiping the the blood away. Although rare, Stage Three Pinterexia is documented, but the images are too violent to share even in a medical setting.)
Spending over $5,000 on your child’s first birthday party, and/or spending over 72 (wo)man-hours making Pinterest-Ready party favors, cakes, petit fours, kiddie cocktails, and bunting.
Narrating your morning makeup routine as if you were making a how-to video. Daily.
Divorcing and marrying the same man again just so that you can create a Post-Pinterest-Age wedding.
(The early stages of Pinterexia can be detected in the creation of a “If I Were to Get Married Again” Pinterest Board.)
Addressing your utility bill payments in silver-inked horizontal calligraphy.
Pinning this post without even reading it.

What causes Pinterexia Nervosa?

Clearly, the main cause of Pinterexia is prolonged exposure to Pinterest itself. But, like many carcinogens, it is still legal in most states. Petitions are being sent daily to the Surgeon General requesting he review the hazards.
Pinterest apps, especially when placed on the first page of one’s phone, can greatly enhance the risk of Pinterexia.
Other people in your family or timeline having a Pinterest Disorder, such as Pinaholism or PCD (Pinterest-Compulsive Disorder.)
Having a job that requires the gathering of ideas from Pinterest. Contraction of Pinterexia in these cases is nearly 100%. If this sounds like your occupation, make sure that your employee has comprehensive worker’s compensation with a psychiatric umbrella clause.

How is Pinterexia Nervosa Diagnosed?

If your doctor thinks that you may have a Pinterest Disorder, he or she may compare your outfit, hairstyle, house décor, and closet organization to that of a normal person of your age and Natural DIY Tendency. Your doctor may also investigate your children to ensure that no more than 30% of their wardrobe is upcycled from your old clothing and no less than 60% of the items in their bedroom are actually toys and not untouchable art pieces. They may also quiz them to make sure they are aware that fruit does not have to be eaten only in rainbow-order kabob form, that clothing doesn’t grow on trees already monogrammed and smocked, and that crayons are for coloring, not melting.

How is Pinterexia Nervosa Treated?

All people suffering from Pinterexia need treatment. Even if you, your friend, or (heaven forbid) your husband have only a couple of the signs of a Pinterest Disorder, seek professional help immdiately. Early treatment offers the best chance of overcoming Pinterexia.

Treatment will most likely include a deleting of the Pinterest app on all of your devices and contacting your ISP provider to block any attempts at visiting Pinterest’s website. For advanced stages of the disease, blocking of Facebook and Twitter may also be necessary, as certain enabling people tend to double-post their pins to these social networks. In extreme cases, your house may also have to be treated, de-organized, and sanitized from all Pinnable Projects.

One experimental therapy (only available in Mexico) is Normal Life Reentry Therapy (NLRT), where you are forced to wear only solid beiges, blacks and whites, only served ugly foods (goulash and curry are generally recommended with Monkey Bread for dessert), are required to have your kid’s birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese, and are not allowed to be anywhere near mod podge, stencils, balloons, edible paints, scrapbook paper, or the letters D, I, and Y.

What is the prognosis for Pinterexia?

Long-Term recovery from the disease is rare, and when achieved, is typically promptly followed by a relapse when the patient feels the need to pin an infographic on the steps they took to overcome their Pinterexia.

Remember: early detection is crucial. Know the signs. Perform self-checks regularly. And talk to your doctor about any symptoms or concerns.

Swimming Onset Insanity.

June 11, 2013November 3, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Pop Post, Toddlers: The Experience

A week ago from tonight, I found myself losing my mind in the shallow end of a pool. Questioning my ability to be a parent, and doubting my purpose in life.

What had led to this travesty? How could my life be so complicated when standing in a swimming pool?

Let’s go in reverse order.

Thirty minutes before, my daughter began having a complete panic attack at even the thought of getting her face in the water. Or even her chin.

One hour before, I had done the treacherous work of getting my two children ready for the pool, driving to said pool, and taking off my two-year-old’s diaper and putting him in a swim diaper. Only to then find out that the pool was closed for a swim meet. This was followed by calling a family friend and begging them to let us use their pool.

Four hours before, at the first of three pools for the day, Ali’s swimming teacher told me the grave news that my daughter was not willing to get past the whole “water” part of swimming, and so I needed to work with her before the next day, or she would be fired.

(Okay. He actually recommended that I pull her out because he didn’t want me to waste my money. But still – only my kid could get fired from private swimming lessons.)

But four and a half hours before, halfway through that swimming lesson. That’s where the true root of my meltdown originated.

It was the second day of lessons with Mister Ray. Perfect for my intensely fearful daughter, he was calm, laid-back, and gentle. (Let me know if you need his number.) He didn’t try to trick her, and he never let her get scared.

(Unlike myself. Who is apparently horribly scary in the pool setting.)

Despite her six and a half years of built-up water/face contact fears, Ali adored Mister Ray. The day before, she had giddily giggled at everything he’d said, and was oddly not at all nervous about the pending confrontation between h2o and her facial orifices.

Noah and I had tried to stay far away from the lessons so as to not impede the happiness that was occurring. I thought he would be happy scooping and dumping, since it’s all he ever wants to do.

But he was not.

Thanks to teething, heat, and general crossness (I’ve taught him to explain to people, “I’m a little storm cloud”), he made it known how unhappy the arrangements found him.

So on Day Two (the fateful Tuesday in question,) Mister Ray, being the kind and merciful guy that he was, suggested that I let Noah hang out on the stairs of the pool. After all, our lessons were in the middle of the day, it’s June, and have I mentioned that we live in Alabama?

I happened to have Noah’s swimsuit and a swim diaper on my person, so I quickly took him up on it and plopped the kid in the pool.

Noah was happy, Ali was happy. Mister Ray was happy to explain how water doesn’t hurt our face for the four-hundred-and-sixty-seventh time.

I sat on the side of the pool, soaking up the rays of sunshine and of happiness exuding from my children.

Until a few minutes before the lesson was over. When I looked next to me and saw a dinner-plate sized pile of puke directly adjacent to my hand and creeping closer at an alarming rate.

My mind started racing.

“How did PUKE get next to the pool? We’re the first lesson of the day…and Ali didn’t throw up. I’ve been watching Noah. And Mister Ray seems healthy…so that’s strange.”

I looked at it and I looked at it, and then I looked at Noah, who was standing in the pool. Which is how I noticed the unhealthy yellow-brown tinge on the top of his swim diaper.

Nonononono NO NO NOOOOOO!!!!

In denial, I stretched the backside of his diaper open and peered inside…then yanked my finger back out with a new, thick coating.

That pile of puke was not puke. And if he had left that on the side of the pool…how far and wide had he spread his love?

I grabbed him out of the water and ran over to the sidewalk, where I had zero wet wipes. Or shop towels. Or a HAZMAT suit.

I told him to NOT MOVE AN INCH and ran to the car. When I came back, he was lying on the sidewalk with his feet sticking straight up in the air.

“Change me, Mommy!!”

As carefully as one can (which isn’t very), I shimmied Noah’s sopping wet and unpleasantly squishy swimsuit down his wet legs, while things that must not be named dripped out.

Then came the door to the underworld.

The ripping of the sides of the Swim Diaper of Hell.

Nothing can make poo nastier than being marinated in water. Especially when that water has had a really good chance to mingle, thereby creating a Lake of Darkness.

Let’s just say that I, who prides myself in never gagging at my kid’s various productions, totally gagged.

I managed to get the Bog of Eternal Stench into a bag without spilling it everywhere, wiped him up, scrubbed the sidewalk with a wet wipe, then went to attend to that gigantic pile next to the pool.

At which point I realized: Mister Ray and Ali were still practicing blowing bubbles in the pool. That pool.

“Hey Mister Ray…um…you might need to shock the pool and then some with a treatment. Noah just…had an issue.”

About twelve wet wipes later, I got the pool deck clean…ish.

Then I looked into the pool and saw a sinker.

(As opposed to a floater.)

I leaned over and dipped it out with my bare hand – it was a poo cashew.

Like, literally. Left over from the previous day’s granola consumption.

All the while, Noah was screaming because I wouldn’t let him back in the pool.

It was time for the lesson to be over anyway, so Mr. Ray had tactfully hopped out of the poo(l). While Noah continued to scream, Mister Ray broke the news about Ali’s inability to get over the whole water thing.

I apologized profusely for my son and my daughter, promised to work on her swimming in the next 24 hours, then collected my children, their shoes, their towels, and their poo and loaded it all in the car.

It was one of those car rides where Mommy needed a time out.

“No one talk. I need silence.”

I processed my mortification with regards to my child’s murder of the pool.

I processed my kid’s inability to conquer her fears.

Then, when my voice returned, I began teaching Noah a new No-No-Poop Catechism.

“We No-No Poop in the pool.”

“No-No Poop in the pool.”

“What do we no-no do in the pool?”

“We no-no poop in the pool.”

Epilogue:

Noah repeats his catechism at the mention of the pool, and has not pooped in any more of them. In fact, he actually didn’t poop for several days, since he met of that need so thoroughly in that nuclear waste site of a pool.

I recovered from the day with the help of a lot of artisan chocolate consumption.

Ali did indeed take an early retirement from swimming lessons. Although she could never make herself voluntarily put her face fully in the water, she did adore Mister Ray so much that on the last day, she allowed him to do this – twice – without any tears.

I was amazed, stunned, and otherwise speechless.

If only she loved me as much as she loved him, I might be able to help her conquer her fears before she’s twenty-one.

But I don’t see that happening.

Sifteo Cubes {Gaming System Giveaway}

June 10, 2013September 21, 2013 Rachel Callahan Giveaways and Contests

In December, I introduced you guys to Sifteo Cubes. They’re a fun gaming system for kids, and Ali still adores them.

(And I really like them, too.)

They’ve recently released a few new games, including one that Ali is wild about, Sandwich Kingdom: Ice Palace. It reminds me of the text-based choose-your-own-adventure games that I loved as a kid – on our very first DOS computer.

(Did you ever play those games? I think we had one called Bavaria that I was obsessed with. You had to type which direction you wanted to walk with “N”, “S”, “E”, or “W”, then you would find dead ends, run into monsters, or discover great treasures. The fun in it was that you couldn’t “see” where you were going, and had to visualize it in your head.)

In Ice Palace, you place two or more Sifteo blocks next to each other to reveal the pathways:

Then you can touch them to tell your guy which way to go.

Another great thing about this game is the written narration. It encourages Ali to read, imagine, and enter into the game instead of just playing something mindless without a plot.

She also has to read clues and figure out what they mean, but they are simple enough that she can figure them out. They also test her memory by sending her back to a prior location, so she has to remember which order to put the blocks in to get back there.

These cubes are great for summertime boredom or rainy afternoons, and also good to keep her brain sharp throughout the summer, since so many of the games are “sneaking” in learning.

Sifteo Cubes are available through their website, where they are offering free shipping through June 21. Also, Sifteo has given me a set to give away to one of you! The gaming system will be pre-loaded with a set of games, including Sandwich Kingdom: Ice Palace.

If you would like to enter to win a Sifteo Cube Gaming System (worth $129.95), simply leave a comment on this post telling me your favorite summertime boredom-beater for kids. For a couple extra entries, feel free to use this Rafflecopter Widget to follow Sifteo and me around:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

This giveaway will be open until Monday, June 24. I will announce the winner Tuesday, June 25 on my Giveaway Winners Page.

Good Luck!

Disclosure: I was not compensated for this post, but was given a download code to review the new game. My opinions are always my own.

The Date, The City, The Cure.

June 9, 2013February 26, 2024 Rachel Callahan A Bit More Vulnerable Than I Usually Am, A Day in the Life, Every Now and Then I Can Be Sappy Too., I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, The Blissfulness of Life

Any date that contains a moment like this is clearly a most remarkable one.

But it didn’t start out that way.

On Thursday, I was fighting a losing battle with anxiety. Thanks to my over-analytical personality (disorder), anxiety is something that I struggle with in varying intensities from time to time. And it’s not like I had anything legitimate to be anxious about – my mind was just set on being anxious. And every time I solved its problem, the stupid thing would latch onto something else that wasn’t worthy of worry.

At some point in the afternoon as I was praying through Philippians 4:6-7, I realized that I was really good at the NKJV translation of the first part of that passage: “Be anxious for nothing.”

Yup, that was me. Super anxious, and for nothing.

I needed to move onto the ESV translation: “Do not be anxious about anything.”

To give myself something to look forward to and focus on, I texted Chris and asked him out on a date for the next night. He agreed, then immediately seized the planning.

He wanted to take a ten mile walk. And eat casually afterward (while still sweaty). And did I mention ten miles??

He’s been wanting to take me on a walking tour of his favorite running route for a while, and although I did want to see it, the idea of walking ten miles did not sound like the date I was looking for.

But I recognized that sometimes he knows what I need better than I do (and I didn’t have a better idea,) so I agreed to his plan and mentally prepped myself for passing out somewhere atop Red Mountain.

But it rained, stormed, and flash-flooded all morning Friday. I second-guessed his usually immaculate planning.

As Chris arrived home and the babysitter settled in, the sun came out for the first time, giving the wet world a beautiful glistening shimmer while leaving it oddly cool for an Alabama June.

We started out at Jemison Park, and I was once again feeling anxious – and feeling anxious about feeling anxious on our date.

Chris let me talk it out for the first few minutes of our walk, then he announced that our date would involve a lot of selfies – apparently he wanted to poke a bit of fun at the fact that last weekend, two bloggers he knows well road-tripped together and didn’t take a single photo of themselves.

So I submitted, and we took our first selfie in front of a beautiful landmark: the waterwheel house.

(Can you see the skepticism in my eyes?)

But it was cheery in a ridiculous sort of way, and so I took off running, surprising myself by not slowing for nearly a mile.

After stopping for a shoe/rock removal,

we took our next selfie in the Rose Garden at the Botanical Gardens, the sun shining mercifully on our walk.

Chris then took me on some extraordinarily obscure trails deep in the Gardens. By then, the endorphins were starting to set in (and here I thought I was immune to those,) and I was beginning to understand the brilliance of his plan.

Anxiety? What anxiety?

Then began the uphill (upmountain, really) trudge. But spotting these stunning hydrangeas (are they hydrangeas? I’m horrible with nature) helped stretch my euphoric attitude.

We passed through English Village and out the other side as I was starting to pant a bit. My legs ached, but I knew we were almost to the peak of the mountain (and he did promise all downhill at some point,) so I stayed positive.

Until Chris said it.

“This Road is as high as I go on my run, but there’s another road to the left* that’s even higher. Let’s go see what’s up there.”

I mentally calculated that we still had at least 5 miles to walk to get back to the car.

Eek.

But I trusted him (after all, he’d been right so far), and we headed up a winding road.

The houses lining the street had a beautiful Old-Birmingham charm, with overgrown stone paths and paint-chipped wrought iron gates. I was already imagining the family photo shoot we could have on this street. Until we turned the corner.

And all of my thoughts flew away.

My beloved city like I’d never seen her before. Wrapped in Kudzu, covered in a thick blanket of rising mist, and subject to the warm, rich glow of the setting sun.

Admittedly, my first reaction was “Oh, if it were only a clear day!!”, but then I realized the beautiful effect of the mist, and shut up.

The houses that were facing the city were nearly as magnificent as the view,

So I attempted a panorama.

The kudzu-lined wall was too tempting for me to not experience, so I hopped up.

Then Chris took my phone away and told me to be very, very still. He took two photos with my HDR app – one from each side.

We knew we had experienced a magical moment with our city, as it was enshrouded in an evaporating storm.

But we didn’t forget to take our selfie – even my index finger got in the action.

Before we left, I had to sit cross-legged on the wall for a few minutes, taking one more picture, then again immersing myself in the beauty of the moment.

Meanwhile, Chris was trespassing in the yard above me,

Once again taking my photo.

(This was also when I discovered that Kudzu has its own species of freaky spotless ladybugs – zillions of them on every branch.)

(It wasn’t long after this discovery that I was ready to move on.)

Our next stop was our traditional city view.

(Aren’t our heads so fabulous when masking a beautiful city view? If you want to see the actual view, it’s in Chris’ running post.)

Then Altamont Park, home of the somewhat sketchy cannon aimed at downtown:

(That’s Chris’ “it’s time for another selfie” expression.)

And finally, his promise came true: downhill.

Glorious downhill.

Down a windy dangerous hill with no sidewalks, but I didn’t care.

Somebody on that road had a magnificent wooden driveway-bridge over a beautiful creek,

…which screamed for a selfie-stop.

We made it to Crestline Village, where the most unattractive upshot selfie of all had to take place – for the sake of the Clock Tower.

(Oh! My Jowls!)

Because of my insistence on having a longer break at the lookout than he planned, the sun was setting fast.

And the selfies grew in graininess.

The creepy misty golf course beckoned for a photo op, and was the catalyst of the death of my phone battery.

The last selfie of the night happened at Mugshots, who blessedly allowed us to eat despite our sweaty, odorous, yet overly-romantic aura.

Of the ten mile tour, I ended up running about 1.5 miles of it, or 15% of the amount Chris typically runs. My legs still feel like they crossed the Sahara, but my mind is refreshed, and even euphoric.

And it was the best date of my life.

* I did not include the road name in this post out of respect to its residents. And mainly because I don’t want them to ban us from the street for life. But feel free to ask if you want to visit.