Rachel Callahan

The Essential Alabama Beach Shopping List.

March 12, 2013March 12, 2013 Rachel Callahan I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Photographical Oddities, Weird Strange and True, Yes I'm a beach bum. What of it?

Last weekend, we took a quick trip down to the beach to visit Chris’ Aunt and Uncle, who happen to live in one of the most beautiful locations in our state.

I relaxed and didn’t take too many photos – just a couple of the kids acting adorably endearing,

doing vacationy things like drinking preservative-filled half-and-half while waiting for breakfast,

and offering the services of Aunt-Boot-Camp.

But Chris and I snuck out after the kids went to bed one night (sneaking out isn’t just for teenagers anymore,) and found ourselves walking around in the Southern Beach Mecca.

If you have to walk in through a Shark’s Mouth, it’s gonna be good. Right? Right.

We didn’t buy a single thing, but we enjoyed browsing. And by doing so, we identified the Top Ten Must-Have Purchases if you ever come to an Alabama Beach.

10. The Details-Added Bikini T.

The Bikini T might be a ubiquitous find at any beach, but this particular one has added interest. First, take notice of the peeping-out inner-boob tan-lines. You can’t get that attention to detail just anywhere.

Then there’s the tattoo, making sure everyone knows that you got this special purchase from Alabama.

But the best detail is the real, live, 3-dimensional belly-button-hoop – made out of the finest of materials:

But if you’re more of a sporty girl than a blinged-out-navel girl, they have a shirt for you, too:

Remember: never skimp on quality when it comes to faux-skimpy clothing.

9. Airbrushed Sand Dollars.

Because nothing shows respect to a formerly living creature like spraying it to match your favorite sports team.

…Except perhaps spraying it with a rebel flag and Browning symbol. Because you know that Sand Dollar was a Confederate deer hunter.

8. Apple Bottom Mermaids.

Just because you don’t have a butt doesn’t mean that you can’t have a butt.

7. The Knife Counter.

No beach trip can truly be considered fulfilled without buying a machete, samurai sword, and, perhaps, the last battle-ax on the wall.

But for those who like to be more subtle with their sharp objects, there are always personalized pocket knives.

…but don’t expect to find a Jordan or Donovan on these racks.

And don’t ever forget a gift for Grandma.

Because every Grandma needs an object with which she can pick her teeth and toenails.

6. Magnetic sculptures that capture the beautiful essence and actions of life.

Like, for instance, eating:

5. Crystal Stingrays.

Crystal Figurines are a staple of all gift shops. But you can’t find a crystal this ugly in just any state.

4. Collectible Coins. Branded with the gift shop’s name.

“For only $3, you, too, can remember this gift shop visit forever!”

3. Wardrobe leftovers from Flashdance, screenprinted with graphics left over from Nintendo’s California Games.

2. Bobs.

All of them. Ever made.

And the number one must-buy if you ever make it to an Alabama Beach is…

1. Marinated Baby Sharks.

Because nothing says “Sweet Dreams!!” like the glowing, iridescent eye of a dead shark staring unblinkingly at you.

All night long.

50 Restaurants in Crappy Photos: Round One.

March 11, 2013November 12, 2013 Rachel Callahan 50 Restaurants in Crappy Pictures, Actually Possibly Informational, I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure

We usually eat out at least a couple of times a week (if not embarassingly more often) and due to an extreme preference for the atmosphere and the food, almost all of those meals are at local restaurants. Birmingham has an astoundingly robust local dining scene, so there are always plenty of options.

But although we’ve tried what we thought was nearly everywhere, we like what we like, and we often end up at the same several places. On any given Friday night, we can usually be found at either Nabeel’s, Silvertron, or Mudtown.

(During the Old-People-Dining-Hours – we have young children with early bedtimes.)

But then I had this fantastic idea. What if I committed to trying 50 new restaurants in a year? They would be mostly local with a few chains thrown in, and the only rule would be that I had never been to them.

It could be a blogging project! Beautiful pictures! Fun graphics! Pomp and Circumstance!

But I highly doubted that there were 50 restaurants in Birmingham in which I had never entered.

I started browsing through Urbanspoon and was shocked: making a list of 50 previously unvisited restaurants was done in five minutes. And it wouldn’t even have to include all of the nasty food groups for which I don’t care (sorry, Vietnamese, Thai, Indian, and Fried Giblets — it’s not you, it’s me.)

But then I had another setback: Properly blogging about such an adventure would have to include my giant camera. And good lighting. And people staring at me, wondering why I was photographing my food with such snootery.

And I hate being stared at.

But I still wanted to do my project, so I decided that I would just take crappy iPhone photos, and if it takes longer than a year, it would be okay. I won’t get accolades for my amazing journey and fantastic photographs and stellar moment-capturing sensibilities, but I wouldn’t have anyway. And I will have the experiences, and our palates will be increased, and maybe I’ll motivate a person or two to try the same journey in their city.

And 50 Restaurants in Crappy Photos was birthed.

I gleefully created a spreadsheet or prospects and sorted it by whether it was a Date or Family destination, price, location, and dining hours. Then we set out on our journey.

Here are our first three visits:

1. Saw’s Juke Joint.

Saw’s was at the top of our list because it’s close by, casual enough to take children, and relatively inexpensive. It’s in the former location of Ore, which was American Idol winner Taylor Hicks’ first restaurant endeavor. Which in my opinion (and apparently everyone else’s, since it is now gone,) was significantly pricier than the quality deserved. So I suppose that Taylor got a clue and decided instead to invest with an already flourishing Birmingham brand, Saw’s (of Saw’s BBQ in Homewood and Saw’s Soul Kitchen in Avondale.)

And I am convinced it was the right move.

Technically a BBQ restaurant, they have a lot of unique foods and preparations, including whole-fried Okra with a special sauce,

Stuffed BBQ jalapenos that are hotter than anything served to a Lady should be (and kept me from being able to talk for at least ten minutes,)

Random Specials like A Pork Belly sandwich that no Proper Lady would touch but my husband gushed over,

And a Sweet Tea Chicken Sandwich that is marinated in pickle juice and can be received with an enormous amount of my favorite side, sweet potato fries.

(I’m not a raving fan of pickle juice as a marination option, but that sandwich is pretty spectacular.)

Besides the unique stuff, they do a very good job on their main squeeze, BBQ. And we were back exactly a week after our first visit, and again a week after our second visit. This restaurant is definitely sabotaging our 50 Restaurants in Crappy Photos efforts.

2. DeVinci’s Italian Restaurant.

We pass this tiny place all the time on our way to Nabeel’s, and have honestly had few thoughts regarding it. It’s off the road, unimposing, and it has a photo of Mona Lisa on the awning.

(I also wasn’t clear as to why they had their name written once with capitalization, and once with only half-capitalization.)

But we had heard good things about it, so we visited it on a night that we only had one kid in our care, since we didn’t know how anti-children the typical DeVinci’s/deVinci’s clientele would be.

It turned out to be much roomier on the inside than it appeared, in a shocking Mary-Poppin’s-Purse, Scooby’s-Doghouse sort of way. It had an established, local, homey feel to it, with mismatched 70’s tables and booths. Kids were obviously welcome, and the population was sparse.

The only thing that made me feel a little more than slightly squeamish is that evidence implied that they had a one-holer bathroom directly off of the main dining room.

(I did not go investigate whether indeed it was a one-holer, but it did seem to be so based on watching someone try to visit, but turn around and walk back to their table when the door appeared to be locked.)

(I just don’t want my pee listened to by other diners. Or vice versa.)

Luckily, we were far away said doorway, so we were safe. We ordered the baked feta appetizer, since we love Nabeel’s and Chez LuLu’s very different takes on similar dishes. We were shocked by how MUCH feta DeVinci’s granted us:

Yes, that is basically a bucket of feta, covered in what one could only presume is a homemade red sauce. And the bread was sliced thinly, with butter beneath every fold.

Noah was with us that night, and he currently holds the family title of Picky Eater. However, we somehow tricked him into trying the feta, and he ate at least half the bucket.

I searched the menu for something light to eat, and ended up on the spinach lasagna.

When it arrived, I recognized the extreme error of my ways.

That cheese patty was at least a foot deep, and more cheese lay beneath. I didn’t get very far, because I can’t handle rich foods like I used to.

Chris got a personal sized pizza that made him very happy, and they were nice enough to serve Noah his spaghetti deconstructed, which made me very happy.

3. Otey’s Tavern.

Chris and I had time for a really quick dinner alone a couple of weeks ago, so we headed down the road to another stop on our list.

I almost walked right back out, because it is apparently still legal to smoke in Otey’s (because it’s a tavern?) and I feared that I would have a flaming clown nose by the time we left. But the smoke seemed concentrated at the bar-end of the tavern, so we sat in the opposite corner and managed to keep my nasal passages relatively unscathed.

The menu was very much bar food, but did have a lot of variety. Chris had been dreaming about their cheesy-bacon-fries ever since he’d originally browsed their menu, so we started with those.

They made for a very happy husband, and I liked them fairly well, too.

Chris ordered a BLT,

and I got a hamburger, which, although it deserved better, wins the award for crappiest photo of the post:

They followed through on the menu promise of crisp onions and a ripe tomato, two things that are very important to my burger experience. The burger itself was also very juicy, and made for good food.

And the winner of Round One is:

Saw’s Juke Joint, without a doubt. We’ve now been three times, and have loved everything we’ve ordered. And their menu has us constantly scheming about when we can get back for more.

Bonus Feature – A Most Unique Dish: from Mudtown.

So Mudtown can not begin to qualify for our 50 new restaurants since we’ve been going there for years, but I also want to share some of the most unique dishes in the city.

Mudtown offers fresh, hot, homemade sweet potato chips with a…warm Bleu Cheese Bacon dip.

It will leave you at a loss for words.

Let me clarify: I do not like Bleu Cheese. However, this dip has a secret: it’s actually mostly cream cheese. It just happens to have Bleu Cheese, Chives, and Bacon in it for flavoring. And it is pretty much the best thing that you will ever put on a sweet potato chip.

Hungry now? Then go somewhere new tonight. Then come back and tell me about it.

Postal Purgatory.

March 8, 2013March 8, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Parent of the Year

Hey there – I miss you guys.

I mean, I’ve kind of been here, but really it’s just an illusion. I’ve not *really* been here.

Where I’ve really been is staring at dozens of people’s butts, all day every day.

And when I’m not doing that, I’m answering Facebook messages, tweets, emails, texts, and phone calls regarding butt appointments.

It’s a bit overwhelming. And I really want to get back to being here – because I like y’all better than butts.

Also, because of these rare circumstances, I have been breaking my own rules and visiting the Post Office. With two small children.

Also known as the Sixty-Seventh Ring of Hell.

Maybe I need to find a new post office or better yet figure out how to print my own postage and get home pickups, but my local branch moves slower than a Hardees drive-thru. And I’ve only eaten Hardees like five times in my life, but those five times added up to a year of my life.

(I think y’all call Hardees “Carl Jr” out west – are they slow, too?)

So Monday, I had one large box and five envelopes full of jeans that had to be mailed. I had pre-filled out all of my shipping labels and affixed them to the packages before I left the house – except for the box, because I was hoping to find a smaller box in the PO stash.

I did not, so I went to the long counter that paralleled the line and began taping up my remaining box.

Let me clarify: at my post office, there’s a work counter out of the line, and a really long work counter that runs alongside the line. If there are already people in line, I always do my work at the long counter while in line to prevent being jumped. That’s what the counter is there for, right?

There were six people in line. I let Noah loose for half a second so that I could use the tape dispenser, and he took off, yelling happily all the way. He and Ali spread through that post office faster than e.Coli at Chuck E. Cheese. They bounced off the walls, ran into poles, and got dangerously close to the open door. So I stopped, chased, and scooped an unhappy Noah up, and told Ali to stand next to me.

Which meant that I was then stuck with the task of trying to get packing tape off of the tape dispenser with one hand while Noah was squirming mercilessly in my arms and saying “down, down, DOWN!!” and Ali was holding onto my leg and asking me never ending questions about the inner workings of the post office.

It was not for moments like this that I became a parent.

As my shoulder was being pulled out of socket and my leg was being hugged with a with knocking-off-balance force and the packing tape would not come off the roll without sticking to itself (WHY does tape have to DO THAT?!?! We can send robots to Mars but we can’t make tape that doesn’t stick to itself??), a very able-bodied 60ish-year-old woman walked into the post office and got in line – in the small space between me and the guy in front of me.

I stared, aghast.

How could she not think I’m in line?

I mean, sure. I’m sealing up my package. But what else is this counter for?? This isn’t like a restaurant that won’t put you on the list until your whole party has arrived. This is the world’s slowest post office line. Have mercy, woman!! Did you never have small children??

As I was staring, Noah was beating (lovingly?) upon my chest demanding freedom and Ali was tugging and questioning with the rapidity of a semiautomatic weapon in a voice loud enough that Linebreaker Lucy turned around, looked at me sympathetically, and said,

“Oh MY. Don’t you have your hands full!!”

And it was at that moment that I wished I weren’t so southern.

But alas, my Mother raised me to smile and nod, so smile and nod I did.

I hope she’s proud.

I fumingly went back to one-handedly ripping packing tape off of the tape dispenser, but the anger lobe of my brain had grown seven sizes that day, which caused it to push into my hand-eye coordination lobe, and my finger met the very sharp, very industrial strength teeth of the dispenser.

I thought it was just a flesh wound, until I noticed that I was bleeding all over the packing tape.

(Which, incidentally, helps it not stick to itself.)

I gave up on the tape and used my one free arm to reach across Noah and feverishly search my purse for any type of sopping item, and right before I got desperate enough to affix a feminine product to my index finger, I found a used napkin.

I wrapped my hacked-up self and carried on in my packaging attempts.

Not a single person had been successfully helped and dismissed from the Post Office since I had entered, and there were now at least four more people behind me, all simultaneously emoting sympathy for me and oohing over how cute Noah was, as he tried all of his begging strategies to escape my grip.

“Peeeese peeese down.”

“Iloveyousomuch you’rebooootifulmommy peeeeeeese down.”

“DOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWNNN!!!”

Finally, Linebreaker Lucy got her turn at the counter.

She had four letters in her hand to mail – letters that had already been stamped. But she had come to chat with the counter employee.

“Hi there! How are you today? I’m great. You see, my friend Susan just had pelvic surgery, so I wanted to send her a get-well card. But all I had here were these old 20 cent stamps, so you see I put a bunch on it. Do you think that this will be enough postage to get the card to Susan?”

“Yes ma’am, that will be more than enough.”

But yet. She stood there chatting for at least five more minutes, past the time that the other employee became free and I began the tedious process of moving my six packages from counter to counter. I needed use of two arms, so I put Noah down and told Ali to watch him.

He took off in a blinding sprint, so she did what any responsible sister would do: she grabbed him by the back of the collar.

SCREEEEECH

<haaaack>

<juicy gag>

“Ali. You’re choking your brother.”

“You told me to keep him from running away.”

I picked him back up and began the fight to keep him from hitting the cancel button while I ran my transaction.

I finally left, finger still in napkin tourniquet, feeling beaten and bruised, and a perhaps just a little sinful in my heart toward Linebreaker Lucy.

And, five days later, I still have deep finger fish scales as proof that it wasn’t all just a figment of my imagination.

I hope Susan enjoyed her pelvis card.

A Hundred Celebrations.

March 6, 2013February 5, 2014 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore.

UPDATE: This year’s Hundredth Day of School Post can be found here.

I’ve really been trying to be creative with school this semester, because as we approached the holidays, Ali was completely OVER school. It had gotten boring and predictable, and apparently boring and predictable isn’t fun – who knew?

She was ready to drop out of school forever, and that was that.

So all throughout the holidays, I stressed about finding time to find fun stuff to do when we started back. And all throughout the holidays, I never got around to it.

So instead, I’ve been cramming and finding fun things to do the night before, or in some cases, the second before.

A few weeks ago (yes, I’m unforgivably late in posting this,) we had our 100th day of school. I know that 100th day of school celebrations are all the rage right now, and they did seem pretty fun for geeky number people like us.

So the night before, I asked on my Facebook Page, scanned Pinterest, and in general tried to find something that we could do with no prep time on my part, and with only 1.25 students – so everything needed some modifications.

I started our celebrations off with a ridiculously unhealthy breakfast. I’d totally meant to save this idea for snack time, but decided that starting the day off with a bang was the way to go.

I had created a 10 x 10 grid on Excel with a sequential number in each box. I found ten different small snacks in the pantry and had Ali help me line up ten of each snack on the papers.

Noah was not at all thrilled to have to wait so long for breakfast prep, so we had to hold him off by letting him snack in advance.

When finished, our breakfast* included:

10 Tinkerbell Gummies
10 Apple Jacks
10 Jellybeans
10 Marshmallows
10 Semisweet chocolate chips
10 Fruit Gummies
10 Colored Marshmallows
10 Craisins
10 Yogurt Raisins
10 Goldfish

* This meal is in no way endorsed by the FDA, NSDA, WHO, or any other governmental agency that has an opinion on healthy eating choices. It does, however, come highly recommended by six-year-olds and two-year-olds.

Ali, being the slightly-more-than-slightly OCD kid that she is, ate everything in order – except for the semi-sweet chocolate chips, for which she did not approve.

Noah brought chaos to his plate and abandoned it shortly after eating all of the fairies.

Next, we moved on to something that I should have been doing for a while (everybody does it!) but had never occurred to me: writing prompts.

The positive side of my negligence in this schooling area is that Ali thought it was COMPLETELY AWESOME and TOTALLY ORIGINAL.

Since this day, we have started a notebook for writing prompts back and forth, and it has added some much-needed originality to our conversations (aka: a break from Fairies and Princesses.)

Our last 100-Day-Themed project was an Equation Page, for lack of a better term. She loves these pages in her math book, so I took the idea, made it into a “hundred” activity, and then added fun shapes.

She especially enjoyed finding problems to “fit” the shapes.

(Clearly she needed some help in figuring some of these out, but it was a great opportunity for us to discuss all of the different ways that one could achieve the same answer.)

She declared the day to be “THE best day EVER!!” several times, and marveled at the fact that “I can’t believe that I’m liking school so much!”

Which means that variety is clearly the key to her ongoing educational happiness. Which means that I’ve got to spend much more time on Pinterest – for the children’s sake.

UPDATE: This year’s Hundredth Day of School Post can be found here.

Recapping The Runway.

March 5, 2013November 12, 2013 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore., I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend

The past week has been one of the most physically exhausting weeks of my life.

Good thing it’s been the fun kind of exhaustion.

Besides having back-to-back-to-back jean fittings all day every day ($27.50 for designer jeans really excites people – who knew?) and in general not sleeping well due to all the hubbub, I got to attend Birmingham Fashion Week.

Last year I was a complete newb (noob?) to the world of Runway Shows and Press Pits, and it was quite intimidating.

This year, though, I was cool. I was calm. I was okay.

I was so okay that I didn’t even pick out my clothes until five minutes before I left.

I was so okay that I requested an extra media pass to bring along my own personal photographer.

I was so okay that when I saw the emcee come out in a black sequined halter cropped jumpsuit, I was all like “yeah – I could totally pull that off.”

…which was the point that I realized my Okayness had turned into Delusion.

But the fact that my over-okayness convinced me to bring along Mary Jo to take awesome photos for me nearly made it okay that for one moment I considered wearing a black sequined halter cropped jumpsuit.

(You followed that, right?)

Mary Jo is an extremely talented homeschooling sixteen-year-old who understands all of those big words like aperture and ISO (okay ISO isn’t a big word but I’m sure it stands for something big) that I can’t seem to grasp no matter how hard I try.

And what gave me this fabulous personal photographer idea was that the look I was most excited about seeing was designed by another homeschooling sixteen-year-old, Rachel Irvin (who I interviewed earlier in the week on Alabama Bloggers.)

Rachel, a self-taught seamstress, made it into the top thirty (out of 200) 11-18 year old Rising Design Stars. And Rachel’s fourteen-year-old sister, Hannah, did a stunning job modeling Rachel’s creation on the Runway Thursday night.

The competition’s requirements were that the dress had to be made out of non-traditional material and put together without the use of sewing. Rachel used window screening lined with garbage bags and tissue paper for her top and skirt, then added detail with metal brads and deconstructed bath poofs.

It was fantastic.

My other favorite student dress was this one by Olivia Kampwerth, which I thought was extremely elegant to have been made out of what I am pretty sure was toilet paper:

There was also a college competition, where students got to show a small collection of cohesive looks. I adored this trench, designed by Sarah Winford:

We also got to see beautiful looks by local boutiques including Marella, who showed many graceful dresses,

And Vineyard Vines, who showed whimsical accessories,

And some pretty speech-removing men’s pants.

The headlining designer on Thursday night was Jeff Garner of Prophetik, who showed his vast collection in tribute to Princess Grace.

Many of his pieces were stunning, overflowing with grace and luxury.

He brought along two live musicians, each taking turns singing for different parts of the collection.

A leader in organic and sustainable fabrics and processes, Prophetik has learned to do it right, not shirking vibrance and movement.

My favorite piece was this one – I adored the combination of the print and bright solid.

His collection was the epitome of romance,

As was he, looking more than ever like Westley.

I attended Fashion Week alone on Friday night with one mission in place: to meet Anthony Ryan Auld and Joshua McKinley. I knew that I ran the risk of being labeled as a Project Runway Stalker since I waited in an inordinately long line just to meet Tim Gunn in 2009, but I just had to see if Joshua’s eyebrows were as animated in real life as they appear to be on television.

He did not disappoint.

And, to mark the momentous occasion, I uttered my first word ever in the Birmingham Fashion Week Interview Room.

After nearly everyone else had asked their questions (all eight of us,) I asked,

“Joshua, you mentioned not letting the trends affect you in a bad way. And Anthony Ryan, you referred to making sure that you get feedback from customers. How do you each keep your fan feedback from affecting your design aesthetics in a negative way?”

Anthony Ryan said, “Hmmm…that’s a tough question. That’s a REALLY good question…It’s really tough to say. [miscellaneous hemming and hawing] I guess at the end of the day, I just don’t let it.”

(As soon as I exited the interview room, I gleefully texted Chris, “Anthony Ryan said I asked the BEST QUESTION OF THE NIGHT!!!”, which is technically true since he didn’t exactly mention that anyone else’s question was good. Right?)

Joshua answered my question in a very thoughtful way. [Paraphrasing, because I was staring at his eyebrows instead of taking notes…] “I don’t let what people think of my design affect me, but if there’s a quality issue, like if they say my clothes fell apart, then it bothers me a lot…unless of course I did it on purpose because I wanted to embarrass them.”

Both of the guys were extremely nice to us, and we all walked together down the sidewalk and across the street for “Step and Repeat:”

After the photo op, I went back across the street to sink into a couch-so-cozy-I-wanted-to-steal-it, put my feet up, and have dinner at The Red Cat.

This was a fabulously foolish move, because I should have been elbowing for my spot in The Press Pit:

But the night before had hurt my (high-heeled) feet tremendously, and I somehow thought that if I avoided the crush, an overstuffed chair would magically descend from the heavens just for me, from which I could have a fabulous, comfortable view.

That did not occur.

It should be noted that, if you plan on showing up just-in-time for a Runway Show, it helps to be tall. Or not have decided to wear flats because of your heel-induced pain the night before.

Eventually I found a spot halfway down the runway where I could see, just in time to watch the collection from the most droolworthy boutique in Birmingham, Theadora.

I pretty much loved all of their looks and purposed in my heart to save up some money to go visit Theadora before Spring.

Because every blogger needs a wardrobe like this, right?

All that typing…we should do it in style.

And if a homeschooling Mom doesn’t dress like this every day as she wipes snot from a nose while simultaneously assisting with addition and subtraction, can she really be called a homeschooling Mom?

Yes. I need these clothes. All of them.

Eventually, it came to pass that it was the appointed time for Joshua’s show.

Which was a collection of…bedazzled menswear. With a pop of Tighty-Whitey Graphics.

And, since he described his line as “audible without conversation,” I will respect his wishes and leave you to watch in silence.

After his show, Joshua came out aglow for the admiring crowd.

He kissed a birthday girl right in front of me,

then left the runway with a couple cartwheels.

Because if you’re going to design bedazzled menswear, you absolutely must show it with flair.

Anthony Ryan’s collection was a bit more subdued (what wouldn’t be?), like this very unique and interesting dress (even though I was worried about the model accidentally pulling it off with an unusually forceful pocket entry.)

I have to admit that I didn’t understand some of his looks – like this one,

and this one,

But I absolutely drooled over this dress, and have considered driving to Baton Rouge to make it mine.

Anthony Ryan made his appearance next.

You might notice that the crowd behind him was a tiny bit excited.

Too bad he only had eyes for me.

And it’s all because I asked him the BEST question he’d EVER heard.

(Wasn’t that what he said?)

(Yes. I think it was.)

The Double Space and I.

March 4, 2013March 3, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement.

I am an oversensitive perfectionist.

Which, for any embryos out there who happen to be choosing the character traits with which they will be stuck for the next eighty years, is a really crappy combination.

I still remember the fateful day in high school when someone pointed out that I said “Areenge” instead of “Orange.” It took me weeks to figure out exactly which sylabbic pronunciations were the correct combination to produce an unmockable orange, but I finally found them within myself. And for the past fifteen years, I have thought of that event every single time I’ve said the word “orange,” as I take careful precautions to get it just right.

A few years later, a coworker brought it to my attention that I said “anyways” when I really should be saying “anyway.” Anyways felt so right that I looked it up to ensure her inerrancy in correcting me, but the moment I discovered that she was legitimate, I hacked that “s” out of my vocabulary quicker than my toddler can find food on the floor and eat it.

(Or ladybugs.)

(Just kidding. That was his big sister.)

So it should be no surprise that when I saw my more journalistically-trained friends (who already greatly intimidate me due to my journalactophobia) begin posting links on Facebook and Twitter about the terrific gaffe, potential evil, and amateurishness of the double space, I began, once again, to feel that terrible aura of unacceptability within my soul.

But I couldn’t change right away. The double space was a part of who I was, and a part of over a thousand posts to which I had to still claim authorship. To shun it would most certainly shame all of my previous work, and I couldn’t bear the thought.

And plus, I thought it looked better. It was clean. It was concise. It had closure. It was exactly what the end of a sentence should be.

And after all, I had been taught that the double space was correct, and turning my back on my education was the ultimate admission of my quickly aging state.

Then again, I was also taught that Pluto was a planet.

More, more, and more “friends” began posting links to articles lambasting the double space and comparing anyone who still used it to primordial beings not worth entrance onto the internet, and certainly not into the world of print.

It pained me to think of changing. My hands – they were so accustomed to the cadence of the double tap on that long, comfortable space bar. How could they ever adapt?

Maybe my friends didn’t notice.

But one morning, I was procrastinating on the task of getting out of bed and justifying it by having deep thoughts with myself because getting a new mattress was the worst thing that ever happened to morning productivity – she’s so soft and generous with her comfort that she’s like that illogical enabling friend who doesn’t want what’s best for me, but just wants me to hang out with her all day.

(It’s as if she serenades me with “Baby It’s Cold Outside” every morning, and even though I hate that song, it totally works when sung by a mattress.)

Anyways. I MEAN ANYWAY.

One morning, as I was procrastinating on the task of getting out of bed and justifying it by having deep thoughts with myself, I purposed in my heart to do it. To give up my security blanket of an extra space forever and become a Big Girl Writer.

And I did.

And that was that.

Now if I could just stop using the word “infamous” incorrectly, I might make it a month or two before once more feeling vast amounts of scorn toward myself.

To Stalk a Hacker.

March 1, 2013March 1, 2013 Rachel Callahan Anal Retentivity to a Fault, I'm a Glutton for Adventure

“I’m really craving investigative report,” I complained to Chris.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Like I did with Dr Pepper TEN and Uncle Joe’s Tot Locker. It’s been too long and I miss it. I really need something to dig into!”

“Okay…”

“What do you think about if I did an investigative report on what our legal street address is? You know, since we live in the county – what should we technically put in place of the city? Legally, is our address ‘Birmingham’ because we’re in the metro area, or ‘(unnamed snooty suburb)’ because we have their zip code, or ‘Unincorporated Jefferson County’ because we belong to no one? Or do we not even have a legal address?”

“You can investigate that, but I don’t think it’d make a very interesting blog post…”

“Oh. Even if I called the Postmaster General’s Headquarters and grilled them about it?”

“Even if.”

I took his word for it and have not called the Postmaster General. But fortunately, shortly after this conversation, someone offered themselves up to be investigated.

That someone hacked both my PayPal account and my old email address.

I discovered it quite by accident a couple of weeks ago, and it was a very bizarre hack job.

On my PayPal account,

1. They had replaced my email address with theirs.
2. They had removed my credit card from my account.
3. They had changed my mailing address to theirs.
4. They moved my credit card to another PayPal account that they opened under the same email address (I suspect some sort of account-merge option, although PayPal vehemently denies any possibility of a security breach such as that on their part.)

On my Email Account, all they did was set all of my new emails to go to the “recently deleted” folder.

But what they did not do was the strange part.

1. They did not change either account’s password.
2. They did not make any purchases or transfer any money on my PayPal account, credit card or their new PayPal account.
3. They did not, that I could tell, send or receive any emails from my account.

Either these were the stupidest criminals to ever discover the internet, or they were taking their sweet time (it looks like they had access for five days,) or their master plan was higher than my imaginings could comprehend.

And my imagination spent quite a while on attempting to comprehend it.

First, I did all the things that you are supposed to do in such situations – I changed my passwords, cancelled my credit cards, checked all other accounts, and undid all of their bizarre informational hacking.

But not without first storing their information in a safe place.

Then I started the fun part: the stalking and reporting.

Thanks to their leaving of (what was presumably their) mailing address into my account, it was high enjoyment.

I pulled up their house on Google Streetview and pretended that I was doing a real-time surveillance as I stalked their every move.

I learned that the house had just been built last year, was built on the remains of a trailer park, cost $1,100 in rent, would sell for (approximately) $101,560, and had just been rented out seven days beforehand – presumably to my perps. I knew the median house value in their neighborhood, the crime rates, demographics, the median income, and had streetviewed a nice little trip down their city block.

It took a little extra work since they’d just moved in, but I managed to identify the occupants. In fact, there were seven adult occupants in that tiny house, and I had their names, vitals, and ages.

I even had their phone numbers.

I gloated over my knowledge, practically screaming in glorious exultation at my computer screen,

“Take THAT, you silly little criminals! Mess with a blogger and see what you get! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”

But I didn’t call them.

Because it was much more fun to call their local police department, my local Sheriff’s department, the Internet Crime division of the FBI, and the Identity Theft division of the CIA.

(Not that I would ever overreact.)

My favorite call was to their small-town police department, where I talked to what seemed like the only uniform in town.

“So you’re from…Alabama. And you’re telling me that you traced…um…internet fraud…to….our little town?”

“Yes ma’am, and their house is zero point nine miles from where you’re sitting right now.”

I wasn’t entirely sure that she knew what the internet was, let alone PayPal, so I tried to reiterate the importance.

“I have a feeling that this might be a ring of criminals, and they most likely have far more victims than just myself.”

“Oh yes ma’am. We will definitely investigate it. And you said it was…internet fraud?”

Ultimately, I don’t know if my criminal friends will ever get caught, although I am checking in on my multiple case numbers with all of the various criminal justice organizations regularly. And I also still don’t understand their methods and strategies, despite my many quiet moments of pondering.

But I googled their soul, and that’s what counts.

$27.50 for Name Brand Designer Jeans? Yes.

February 27, 2013February 15, 2015 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Newsflash, Shamelessly Plugging Away

Update: Due to significant changes in the company and a terrible downward spiral in denim quality, I no longer recommend shopping through Vault Denim. I now buy all of my jeans through Nordstrom Rack’s app, HauteLook, which regularly features my favorite brands of designer jeans at half the cost. I highly recommend it! My current favorite brands are Joe’s Jeans, Genetic Denim, Hudson Jeans, Frankie B, Mother Denim, and 7 for all Mankind

Okay.

So I rarely advertise on my own blog.

In fact, my least favorite negative comments are the ones where people accuse me of “writing to promote what I’m selling” on my denim posts.

Because it’s quite the opposite.

Besides the fact that I tell people to buy other store’s jeans all the time (I expect a thank you note from Express any day now,) I only got into the denim business because of my blog, not the other way around. I never had any interest whatsoever in doing direct sales – the only reason I did finally join Vault Denim (after much reticence and angst-filled soul searching about how much I despised sales) was because people wanted my help anyway, and it allowed me to offer my help easily, and at half-price.

And I still don’t like sales, but I do adore consulting with people to help them get a new butt.

The one discouraging thing, though, is that even though my jeans are at up to 50% off of retail prices, they are still $48-92, which disallows me to help some people that can’t pay that much for jeans (even though I posit that it is worth it to save up for one great pair of jeans rather than buying three not-so-great pairs.)

</Disclaimer>

And so that brings us to today’s post.

Tuesday afternoon, I got the most exciting email EVER from Vault.

They marked down over half of my 250 pair Designer Denim inventory to $27.50!!

They have never done this before.

$27.50. For jeans that, at retail, could cost $150 or more.

$27.50. For some of the top designer name brands that I’m really not supposed to say here but I really really really REALLY want to (email me if you wanna know.)

$27.50. A price at which Gap and Old Navy can’t even scoff.

I went through my jeans Tuesday night, and the above are the 127 pairs of jeans that are currently $27.50 – and more are on the way. And I can order even more if I sell out, for at least the next little while. Unfortunately, I do not yet know how long this promotion will last. The only catch, though, is that they’re not returnable because they’re trying to close out all of these styles to make room for new jeans.

This opportunity excites me so much because it gives even more people the affordable opportunity to find out what a difference a great pair of jeans can make!

So if you’re interested, here are your options.

If you’re relatively local to Birmingham, Al:

1. Get a private fitting appointment with me. Due to the unbelievable bargain of these jeans, I will be trying to be as available as possible over the next few weeks. My appointments for this weekend filled up already, but I will be doing private fitting days on 3/5, 3/12, and 3/18. Let me know as soon as possible if you would like an appointment on one of those days.

2. Host a party. I or one of my teammates will come to your house, and all you have to do is invite your friends…and you get 10% of the total sales of your party to put toward your own jeans.

If you’re in the US but not local:

1. Email me – All of the Vault inventories are marked down, and I have team members all over the country, so I can try to locate you one with which you can host a party. If I don’t have a team member in your area, I can try to find another Vault rep nearby.

2. Mail order from me – I typically REFUSE to mail order jeans to anyone, because I am all about the fit. However, if you know that you know that a brand works on you, I will send it to you. Or if you’re willing to risk $27.50 (plus shipping) for an over-the-air fitting, we can try it – but of course I can’t make any guarantees on this, and I’d prefer not to go this route.

3. Join my team – this is a great time to make some extra money and get some great jeans because the deals are so good. Plus, I always need new team members to take all the referrals I get. Email me and I’ll be glad to get you more information.

In short, let me know if you’d like to get a new butt, and I’ll help you find one.

The Ugly Truth: Evolution of a Photo.

February 27, 2013February 26, 2013 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I would NEVER take too many pictures. . .

My current Twitter profile picture is breaking two of my most fundamental rules and core values of existence – or at least for the existence of my profile pictures.

1. It’s a Selfie.

2. I took it with my iPhone.

Upon emptying my phone of it’s memories not too long ago, I found the discards of that self-photoshoot. Discards which painfully reminded me why I need to continue to have such legalistic rules against selfies: because of my complete dweebishness of carrying out the process, my sad lacking in the skill of “knowing my angles,” and the fact that I have been the reigning Miss Unphotogenic America for nearly two decades.

(I earned my title in Junior High, when I could hold up my Tiara solely on my eyebrows, much like a bowl of cereal propped upon a pregnant woman’s belly.)

So. The selfies.

It all started on a day when it was unseasonably warm and I found myself lying in the sun. As I laid there, I was struck with a vision for an artsy photo of myself.

But, being the self-conscious person that I am, didn’t have the guts to ask my husband to take it.

But I couldn’t escape the vision.

So I attempted it myself. The following is the evidence created by such attempts.

Too Shadowy.

Too Yardy.

Too Booby.

Too Constipationy.

Too I-Have-a-Thirty-Pound-Baby-Laying-On-My-Stomachy.

Too Squinty. And Army. Must avoid the self-photo look.

WAY too Army. And yes. That’s a flower in my hair. Thank you, Ali.

Too Attacky.

Too Dead.

Too Soap-Opera-Dramatically Dead.

Too Bad-Dreamy.

Nearly The Vision. Except that The Vision didn’t include wrinkles.

So I added a dozen filters. And cropped a wrinkle or two.

(Yes. Still slightly dead. But dead in an artsy Showtime Drama way.)

I dream of a world where everyone has to share their selfie-outtakes.

Music Therapy in Textual Relationships.

February 25, 2013February 25, 2013 Rachel Callahan Let's Play, Utter Silliness, Weird Strange and True

Just a couple of days after I wrote my latest installment in the bathroom flooding fallout, we were eating a nice, peaceful breakfast when Ali calmly observed,

“Huh. Look at the ceiling – there’s new water up there.”

I jerked my head up, praying to God that she was wrong.

But she was not.

There was a new streak of wetness on a previously unaffected part of the kitchen ceiling. That looked somewhat like a snail leaving a slime trail.

And a few feet away, our old friend Decapitated Duck had been sliced through again in a very insult-to-injury sort of manner.

The kids had just experienced their second (second!) bath in their new bathroom the night before. And apparently the new bathroom was having so much fun that it wanted to share it’s glee with the kitchen.

I took a moment to do some deep breathing exercises, then texted our contractor.

He immediately got in touch with the plumber and told him to fix it ASAP.

Which meant that the plumber decided to show up exactly 32 minutes after I had finally given up and laid Noah down for nap.

And of course, he woke Noah up with banging, sawing, clinking, and a brand new hole in my hallway wall.

I revisited deep breathing, then sprung my confused kid from his bed.

Finally, the Plumber left. And I texted Chris the update. He must have accurately read extraordinarily high levels of desperation betwixt my sentence fragments, because he resorted to emoticonic humor in the attempt to keep me from running away.

And somehow the stress of the day plus his inspiringly-cheesy graphic communication made me want to respond completely in emoticon – and song lyric.

So I texted back (translation included for your reading ease):

He figured it out almost immediately. So I texted him another one.

…which took a wee bit longer.

I found a deep sort of solace in this mental amusement, so for the next few days, I kept his text stream full of songs.

(He completely objected to my use of a chicken leg as a wing in this one, but sadly, there is no Emoji for chicken wing, and I wanted a chicken wing.)

It took him much longer than I expected to solve this one,

and he never could get this one, but we’ll get back to that.

I begged for one of my very own, and, as begging nearly always gets me what I want, I received this text from him:

And it drove me to the brink of insanity.

I studied. I worked. I admitted that I was much better at giving than receiving. I asked for hints. Or clues. Or nudges. Or anything. I even tried bribery.

I wrote it all out on a post it note, trying to understand it.

Chris added the circles and Xes to try to help.

I admitted even more fully my complete inability to translate like he could.

I googled the words I knew were right, thanks to his circles.

And finally, Google led me to one of my favorite songs by one of my favorite bands.

A few days later, he tried me again:

But that one looked vaguely familiar…and then I realized why: it was his version of my last song that he never solved.

In my opinion, mine was much more straightforward. But did he get it? No.

This practice was so consuming that it nearly made our house woes fade into history (I bet you totally forgot about them, didn’t you? I would have too if it weren’t for Decapitated Duck sneering at my breakfast every morning,) so I highly recommend that you adopt this practice with your own spouse, kid, friend, random stranger, or favorite blogger as soon as possible.

(And if you have an iPhone but can’t find your Emoji keyboard, go to Settings –> General –> Keyboard –> Keyboards –> Add New Keyboard –> Emoji.)

(Then when you go to type, you’ll have a cool little globe show up on the bottom left of your regular keyboard.)

Okay. So you people need to practice. Here’s one for you to decode, and bonus points if you can figure it out before reading anyone else’s comments:

May the Emoji be ever in your favor.