Rachel Callahan

A New Journey.

August 20, 2012August 19, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Bit More Vulnerable Than I Usually Am, On a more serious note. . ., Thoughts about Faith

On the last day of July, my Dad turned sixty.

On the first day of August, he was diagnosed with Ocular Melanoma.

It was sudden, horrifying, and a nausea-inducing roller coaster of various diagnoses to end up at that point. His diagnosis was confirmed last Monday by a specialist in Memphis.

The tumor did have blood vessels, so according to the specialist, if it is intending to metastasize, it already has. Whether or not it has spread to the rest of his body is yet to be seen – there will soon be tests, but those tests may be too early to be conclusive.

Following that, there will be more scans, treatments, and some level of vision loss – an intense journey.

A journey that I, for one, am not prepared to take.

I’ve been living in a blur for the past three weeks. Unfortunately, life doesn’t slow down just because one needs to sit and process – there’s been a trip to New York, thousands of emails to answer, Vault Parties, my commitment to be a Birmingham Restaurant Week Blogger, preparing for a new year of homeschooling, and perhaps the hardest task of all to do well during this time – being a Mommy.

Although I’ve been careful to not say anything on social media until my Dad was ready for it to be public knowledge, it’s been a hard few weeks. I’ve had many days of ups and downs, and in general have lived with a steady level of anxiety that has caused me to not be able to sleep or eat well, which has in turn made me sick and lose weight. But throughout it all, there have been two things that have helped me redirect my mindset.

First of all, my Dad. He has been tirelessly optimistic, disarming, and nearly unconcerned. Every time I’ve talked to him, I’ve come away feeling as if I’m just being too dramatic about the whole thing – clearly, everything is perfectly fine. His faith – and not just faith like “I believe” faith, but faith like “I believe so I actually feel differently” faith has exhorted me and convicted me about my own unnecessary anxiety.

In an email last week, Dad told me, “Too many times in my life stuff has happened to me that has seemed like the worst thing that could have happened, but God always works in way that I could never have imagined. Seems silly, but I think it will be exciting to see how this will all be used for His glory.”

Yes – that is what I want. That is the attitude I want. That is how I want to live my life.

The second thing that has helped has been to constantly return to the Word of God, especially the Psalms. There are so many passages of reminders of God’s Goodness, God’s control over everything, and of our safety when we rest in His arms. On my most anxious of days, I’ve carved out a little extra time to just sit with my prayer journal and bible and just copy down verses – I’m sure that David doesn’t mind a little bit of plagiarism.

After a page or so, my heart begins to beat a little slower, and I can feel my anxiety loosening it’s grip on my mind.

I know that it will be a journey, and perhaps a long journey. But I also am fully convinced that God does have it all under control, and already knows exactly what it will entail.

Psalm 3

But you, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, the One who lifts my head high.

I call out to the Lord,
and he answers me from his holy mountain.

I lie down and sleep;
I wake again, because the Lord sustains me.
I will not fear…

As I write this, Ali is enjoying quiet time upstairs in her room. Through the monitor, I hear her softly singing…

“He answers prayers, He answers prayers.

He answers prayers, He’s so good to me.”

She has no idea how very right she is.

My parents are still planning on taking their two week 40th anniversary adventure before any treatments begin. The current schedule is to get scans to check for cancer in other areas of his body (primarily lungs and liver) this week, and then in five weeks, Dad will go back to Memphis for another evaluation. Possible treatments include a weeklong placement of a radioactive “plaque” on the back of his eye to attempt to destroy the tumor. Your prayers are appreciated!

The History of My County.

August 16, 2012November 12, 2013 Rachel Callahan I Love Birmingham, Storytime, Weird Strange and True

I typically like to show the lovely, wonderful, idealistic views of my city.

(Such as today at my other blog, you can look at pretty pictures of our stunning local food scene.)

And I’d say that most of the time I succeed – many of my readers have told me that they had no idea Alabama was such a beautiful place.

But sometimes, there’s a story that just must be told. And since I hinted about it a few weeks ago, now is the right time.

Twice in the past month, my husband found himself getting up, before daylight, to camp on the steps of the courthouse, along with hundreds of other people.

Do you see how far that line goes? Nearly to the next county. Before 8am.

For quite some time now, it has felt like our county is run by the former USSR Communist Regime, so it’s time to talk about why.

It all started with poop.

In the mid-nineties, Jefferson County decided that we needed a better way to transport it.

(This was in part due to some legislation called the Clean Water Act and a lawsuit that ended in a unfunded judicial mandate to build a bigger better poop pipe.)

(Thanks a lot, government.)

Somehow, in the construction of a poop-carrying pipe, our county managed to lose track of over 3 billion dollars.

Oops.

I guess you could call that flushing our money down a toilet.

(A Pirahnaconda-Sized toilet.)

Our trusty leaders compiled this tragedy with some very sketchy bond swaps and interest rate changes to try and “help” the situation. However, these desperate and oh-so-shady attempts earned our bonds the official S&P title of “Junk”.

Scandal ensued, notorious public officials were thrown in jail, our water and sewer bills rose faster than the national debt, and in 2011, our Junk County declared bankruptcy.

It declared bankruptcy for 4.23 BILLION dollars, the largest government bankruptcy ever filed.

By our meager little county of 658,000 residents.

…Which means that our county spent approximately $6,429 per resident for poop pipes.

I hope they’ve figured out how to mine gold out of it.

But these guys had more important things to spend our money on than just poop. For instance, in the most notorious verdict against Birmingham Mayor and former Jefferson County Commissioner Larry Langford. He was found guilty of accepting bribes of around $200,000 of clothes, watches, and other such fineries.

So see? It wasn’t ALL for poop.

My favorite quote from one article about Mr. Langford being found guilty on all 60 counts of criminal activity was:

“I hate it to the high heavens for him and his family. It’s just devastating,” Rep. John Rogers, D-Birmingham, said. “He’s a good man. He’s got flaws. We’ve all got flaws. Sometimes when you’ve got flaws people prey on your weakness. I think it sends a lesson to all public officials to be very, very careful,” Rogers said.

Yes. How dare they prey on his flaw of using our poop money to stock up his suit and tie collection?? It’s inconsiderate, really.

So the bankruptcy led to lay-offs and closing of satellite courthouse offices. It led to the reduction of public services.

And no, our Super Sewer was never completed.

But at least Mr. Langford looks reeeel spiffy in jail.

But that’s not all.

Right before bankruptcy was declared, a powerful ingredient was added to the concoction of our county’s train wreck: HB 56.

The State of Alabama passed the toughest immigration law to date, which, among countless other regulations, turned every interaction with any government office into an immigration checkpoint.

So, for instance, to renew one’s car tag, both people on the title must be present and show valid identification to prove their legal status.

(And no, having a mullet, wearing a Bama shirt and shouting “ROOOOOLLLL TAAAAD!!” is not valid proof of Legal Alabamian Status.)

If instead one chooses to renew by mail (and who wouldn’t, really) one must copy all titleholder’s driver’s licenses and include them with one’s renewal fee.

Every year.

Even if it never changes.

We may be killing trees, but we’re catching the illegal immigrants that were the only people industrious enough to pick our now-dying-on-the-vines crops, by jove.

(Lest I start a debate, the immigration law itself is way too complex with innumerable ramifications for me to make a blanket statement of whether it’s good or bad, but from a completely selfish how-it-intrudes-on-my-every-day-life perspective, it’s torturous. And I’m clearly an Alabamian, not subject to any of the now-legal profiling. I can only imagine how painful it is for anyone that has even the slightest of accent, regardless of their legal status.)

Anyway. Moving on.

So when you mix Bankrupt County with Immigration Checkpoint, you end up with a powerful potion somewhat akin to Crystal Meth. And if you experience it too long, your face is surely to break out in stress acne that will make wish you were only a Meth Addict so that your complexion wouldn’t be quite as bad.

So that’s the history.

Now for the present.

Chris and I both recently bought used cars. Chris’ new love was acquired in-state, and mine was acquired in Georgia. There is no mailing option to register a new car, so one must actually GO to the courthouse, the deepest den of Government Hell known to man.

Chris was smart and only put himself on his title.

(That or he was protecting Ingrid from my jealous motivations.)

But when we bought my car, we put us both on the title. And what was worse, we put “Chris AND Rachel”, not “Chris OR Rachel”.

Never use the word AND on a title in Alabama.

And, since we bought Flexi out of state, we discovered a new and painful twist to HB-56: They have to inspect the actual car – not for environmental reasons, but just to see her. With both owners present. At the main courthouse location.

I didn’t even know that cars could be illegal immigrants.

(But at least they don’t poop.)

Thankfully, I was able to sign away all of my rights to my husband (thank you, Mr. Power O. Attorney) so that he could do the manly thing and go downtown in the wee hours of the morning in the good company of my dear Flexi.

(Honest – I offered to do it since it was my car.)

(But I didn’t fight him one tiny iota when he said it was a husbandly thing to do.)

After hours of people watching and awkwardly standing by while an old man with a cane fought off a blatant line-breaker, Chris finally had the opportunity to walk out with an inspector to check Flexi’s worthiness for the Great State of Alabama.

…at which time he was informed that he was illegally parked.

And one cannot be declared legal while being illegal – it is by definition untenable.

And so the inspector stood, impatiently tapping her foot, as Chris did an awkward 26-point turn on a one-way street to un-parallel park, turn around, and re-parallel park with Flexi pointing in the proper direction.

Then he had to go back inside and stand patiently while they performed an entire hour of paperwork. For one car.

So after months of strategizing and hours of waiting and minutes of sheer panic of the illegality of a parking job and an hour for paperwork, Flexi was deemed acceptable in the county’s sight. And somehow, the net amount owed for her tag was a refund of $11, to be mailed out at some point in the future.

And I’m sure that when they find that mysteriously missing 4.23 Billion, I’ll most certainly get my $11 check.

If You Give a Blogger a Baby.

August 15, 2012August 14, 2012 Rachel Callahan NoahBlogs, Toddlers: The Experience

A guest soliloquy, by Noah.

If you are born to a blogger, chances are, she’ll be a total techy geek.

If she is a total techy geek, then she’s likely to encourage her children to be total techy geeks as well.

If she encourages her children to be techy geeks, then your older sister will probably have multiple computing devices.

If your older sister has multiple computing devices, then you will want to play with them while it is her turn.

If you want to play with your sister’s computing device while it is her turn, you will probably be told no.

If you’re told no at exactly the right moment of toddler impetuousness, you might choose to hit your mother.

If you choose to hit your mother, you might have the unfortunate luck to decide to do so in front of your mother’s father, who also happens to be your favorite person in the whole world.

If you have the unfortunate luck to decide to hit your mother in front of your mother’s father, who also happens to be your favorite person in the whole world, he might correct you with the deep, quiet, intimidatingly controlled voice of a 500 pound Grizzly Bear.

If he corrects you with the deep, quiet, intimidatingly controlled voice of a 500 pound Grizzly Bear, your lip might grow to the size of Omaha.

Don’t have a lip the size of Omaha.

Avoid being born to a blogger.

Continuity Inanity.

August 13, 2012August 13, 2012 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, The Cartoon Age

I’m a Continuity Tyrant.

Let’s say that I happen to be watching a movie. I’m totally enraptured in the plot, the drama, the angst. Two characters – a man and a woman – are having an intense dialogue – you know, the type that explains the whole movie and makes everything come together in an “aha!” moment. I’m craning my neck…watching with acute intensity.

The camera pans to the man. He says something important.

The camera pans to the woman. She says something revelatory.

The camera pans back to the man. He responds with surprise and intrigue.

The camera pans back to the woman. She says — hey waitta minute!! Her hair was BEHIND her ear in the last shot! Now it’s out in front!

The camera pans back to the man. I have no idea what he is saying – all I can think about is her hair.

They pan back to the woman. Her hair is back to the original placement. MM hmm. They spliced two takes of this scene together and didn’t even bother to make sure her hair looked the same in both. THIS IS SUCH A SHODDY MOVIE.

They pan back to the man. I look at him in disgust – how could he agree to be in such a cheesefest of a low-budget made-for-television piece of excrement?

They pan back to the woman. Her hair back is in Take Two placement. I walk out of the room, disgusted by the ridiculousness of the entire thing. Chris looks on, curious and confused as to what catapulted me out of connection with the story.

“DIDN’T YOU SEE IT??? Her hair!! It was SO obvious!!”

It’s a disease I struggle to abide with. And Ali follows closely in my footsteps.

For instance, take Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue.

“Mommy, how is it that Tinkerbell can’t fly if her wings are wet, but yet she can sprinkle pixie dust on Lizzy, and Lizzy can fly in the rain? Why couldn’t Tinkerbell just sprinkle pixie dust on herself and float-fly like Lizzy and just not use her wings?”

“I KNOW, right???”

But even for people like us, there is a point when a bit of unexplained phenomena is okay. And perhaps even the best option.

Like, for instance, I can accept the fact that animals on Dora the Explorer can talk. Boots carrying on a conversation with Dora – fine. It’s a cartoon.

I can even accept the fact that some animals on Dora can only speak Spanish, some animals are bilingual, and some animals only speak English. A bit ridiculous, but I understand the concept of anthropomorphism, and you know what? Some people can speak Spanish, some people are bilingual, and some people only speak English. So why not animals, if indeed animals are already allowed to talk?

I appreciate this allowable bit of unexplained incontinuity most tangibly every Saturday morning when I first hear the intro song of Martha Speaks.

Besides the fact that Martha has perhaps the most irksome animal voice ever recorded and besides the fact that the theme song tune is beyond obnoxious in that catchy you’ll-never-erase-it-from-your-head kind of way…

The words to the song create a strong desire within my soul to yank my toenails out, one by one, just to distract myself from the pain.

If you dare, listen here:

If you don’t, simply read:

Martha was an average dog. She went —
Bark. And— Woof. And— Arrr.
But when she ate some alphabet soup, then what happened was bizarre.
On the way to Martha’s stomach, the letters lost their way. They traveled to her brain and now—
She’s got a lot to say. Now she speaks.
How now brown cow?
Martha Speaks. Yeah, she speaks and speaks and speaks and speaks and speaks…
What’s a caboose? When are we eating again?
Martha speaks…
Hey Joe, what d’ya know!
My name’s not Joe.
She’s not always right but still that Martha speaks.
Hi there!
She’s got a voice; she’s ready to shout. Martha will tell you what it’s all about. Sometimes wrong, but seldom in doubt. Martha will tell you what it’s all about. That dog’s unique…
Testing, one, two!
Hear her speak! Martha Speaks and speaks and speaks and speaks and…
Communicates, enumerates, elucidates, exaggerates, indicates, and explicates, bloviates, and overstates and (pant, pant, pant) hyperventilates!
Martha…to reiterate, Martha speaks!

She ate soup.

Alphabet soup.

The letters got lost.

They accidentally roamed to her brain.

AND NOW SHE CAN TALK.

Can we not just accept the fact that Martha is like 90% of her cartoon animal colleagues and unexplainably good with words? Because….really.

Really??

ALPHABET SOUP????

Even I would prefer incontinuity over that.

When Delightfully Abnormal Goes Awry.

August 10, 2012August 10, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

I don’t know how you Moms with regular kids do it.

And I don’t know how I’m going to do it, since I am certain that I will most definitely be awarded with my second kid being quite regular. Or perhaps even extra-regular.

With regards to the frequency of pee.

My kid is a camel, or at least that’s the diagnosis that her Pediatrician gives her when I worriedly ask her at every visit if she’s absolutely CERTAIN that Ali is normal.

She pees three times a day.

And if I don’t make her go, she’ll wait until after lunch to make her first trip. And it’s always been that way – since the day she was potty-trained.

Which is what brings us to Monday, also known hereafter as The Great Anomaly.

Apparently she really enjoyed her milk at breakfast. And although I forgot to make her pee when she woke up, I distinctly remember her peeing around 10 am.

It had been a rough day of re-entry into normal life for all of us – the kids had The Grandparent Effect, and I had The Alone-With-Daddy-In-New-York-For-Four-Days Effect, and was also fighting my blog and my host to attempt to de-crash it for the dozenth time. Ali requested a trip to the mall to eat lunch. I hadn’t made it to the grocery store to restock, and I desperately needed out of the house and away from this computer, so I agreed.

I forgot to take the stroller in, so I was wrangling Noah to actually sit in his chair and eat. We were about halfway through our lunch when Ali’s head jerked up, her legs crossed violently, and she started hopping up and down and saying, “I need to tee-tee!! I need to tee-tee!!”

She can also usually hold it for hours, so I said, “Can it wait?”

I saw the level of yellow rise in her eyeballs.

“No! I need to tee-tee now!!”

She stood up and began The Pee Dance.

(All Mommies know that The Pee Dance is an ominous 30 second countdown to disaster.)

I breathed a long, internal sigh, then reminded myself that other Mommies do this every time they leave the house. I can manage it once.

I looked up. The Pee Dance tempo had kicked up a few beats.

I frantically gathered our chicken, fries, sauces, and garbage. I stuck the uneaten food in the bag, then confusedly tried to figure out what to do with the trash, since I’d just used my usual trash bag.

So I shoved 4 cubic meters of trash into a Chicken Nuggets box.

As I was hurriedly cleaning off our table, Noah found this to be a perfect opportunity to stand up in the unstable mall chair and begin his own interpretation of Ali’s dance – unbeknownst to me, since I was otherwise occupied trying to prevent a natural disaster.

The Old Lady with the chartreusy-orange hair and white roots that was sitting behind us began yelling.

“Be careful!! BE CAREFUL!! Sit down…. CAN YOU PLEASE SIT DOWN??”

At that point I turned my head to find out who Chartreusy-Orange-Haired Lady was yelling at – oh, my son of course.

I sat him down in his chair, and sprinted to the trash can, leaving him there alone with his whimpering sister, which I’m sure caused an Orange-Haired Coronary. As I came back to our table, Ali looked more panicked than ever. Her skin was turning a pale yellow…and that was no jaundice.

I folded up our food bag and helped Noah out of his chair.

Then she said it.

“I can wait now.”

“What??”

“The feeling is gone. I’m good. Can I eat my food before we go to the bathroom?”

“No!! I’ve already packed it all up because you said it couldn’t wait. We’re GOING to the bathroom.”

“But I don’t need to anymore!”

I grabbed a kid’s hand in each of mine and balanced the food bag in my elbow and we marched to the family restroom. I set the food bag down on the diaper changing table (where I’m positive it collected many fabulous baby butt pathogens) and I focused my attention on keeping Noah from licking the tasty bacterium from every surface.

And Ali was surprised by the fact they Hey! She actually did still have to tee-tee!

Shocker.

She washed and dried, and I went to unlock the gargantuan door.

Nothing.

I tried to turn the lock again.

Nada.

The lock was completely stuck.

The voice in my head began screaming.

OH FOR THE LOVE WE ARE GOING TO SPEND THE REST OF OUR LIVES BEHIND THIS GIGANTIC METAL DOOR WITH NOTHING TO EAT BUT HALF AN ORDER OF CHICKEN NUGGETS, A FEW COLD FRIES, FOAMY HAND SOAP AND PAPER TOWELS.

(At least it’s foamy hand soap. Liquid soap skeeves me out.)

I let go of Noah’s hand for just a moment, and as I saw him take off for the toilet, I began to riotously shake the door handle. I gripped and groaned and turned the lock with all of my might, and it finally slipped out of place, freeing us to the outside world.

I nearly kissed the hallway floor. But I didn’t.

And then we left, uneaten food in hand. Because me and the mall – we were done.

On the bright side, I saw Chris having a nice pre-dinner snack several hours later. I never did tell him about that chicken’s journey.

Might I say it again: I don’t know how you Moms with regular kids do it. And if my second child is a regular kid, we’re never leaving the house again.

The Secret of Halal

August 9, 2012February 17, 2014 Rachel Callahan Blogher, Chris, Guest Post, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Mystery Solved

Our trip to New York last week was was Chris’ first visit, so he got to experience the full unexplainable magic of the city, and he also had a few adventures along the way. This post is one of his fabulous guest posts (written the night before we left), so be sure to give him props, as he is my official Contributing Editor, Rump Photographer, and Man On The Street.

So, Halal.

It is a popular Mediterranean cuisine in New York City, found everywhere on street carts. According to Wikipedia, Halal is defined as “foods that are allowed under Islamic dietary guidelines.”

As it happens, the most popular food cart in Manhattan, a halal one, was right outside of our hotel, at 53rd St and 6th Ave.

Rachel told me about this particular food truck a couple of years ago, when she was attending BlogHer at the same hotel. She hadn’t partaken from it, but she’d witnessed the phenomenally ridiculous lines.

The Halal Guys. Gyro & Chicken. Yes, We Are Different.

This food cart has a line every night. A long line. Every night.

Therefore, since we were staying right across the street, it must be tasted.

There was one small problem, but I’ll come back to that.

I came running by this cart about 5pm. There were about 15 people in line, and it smelled fantastic.

I made a mental note: come back and try the Halal late tonight when the post run munchies come around, because that’s what parents do when kids are elsewhere: go out after 7pm.

So at 10pm, we checked out the Halal situation. By this time it was the Twilight Zone.

There was no longer one Halal Guys cart at 53rd and 6th – there were now three. All Yellow. Same logos. Same T-shirts. Same smell.

VERY different lines.

Halal Guys cart #1 (which housed the 5pm line of 15) had no line.

Halal Guys cart #2 (that was a new arrival since 5pm) had about 60 people in line.

Halal Cart # 3 (also new since 5pm) had no line.

There must be some mistake.

We analyzed this situation, then headed upstairs. Not long after, I proceeded, Man on the Street style, to figure out what was going on.

I presented my question to several people huddled around their sacred foil pans filled with Halal goodness at super-line Cart # 2.

“That cart had a line at 5pm. Now they have nobody. This cart has a huge line. They weren’t even here at 5pm. What is the difference?”

Responses barely varied:

“Because people are sheep.”

“There is no difference. Same guys. Same everything.”

“I don’t know. We just heard this was good.”

Could this really be possible? That native New Yorkers and tourists alike just assume that a longer line means its better?

I continued my interviews at ex-popular Cart #1. I was taking pictures when three girls walked up. In response to my question:

“We’ve never been here before, We heard this was good. Its the same thing, right?”

I proceeded to always-a-bridesmaid Cart #3. This time I was going to solve this. These guys had nobody in line.

So I asked the yellow shirted Halal guy who tried to help me. His heavily accented response, gesturing with annoyance at Prom Queen Cart #2:

“They are only open at night.”

“Yes, but WHY are more people there?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “They have been there for 25 years.”

THERE IT WAS. THE TRUTH. THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE.

If these guys were not the same company, surely in this city of 139 hour workweeks for freshman lawyers there would have been a trademark infringement settled long ago.

There are three identical Halal Guys carts at 53rd and 6th, and depending on what time of day you go, you think you are getting the “good one” based on the line length.

I bought a plate from the Unlucky Cart #3. Gyro over rice. Rice, gyro (lamb) meat, lettuce, pita bread, and sauce. Two sauces actually. White sauce, which appeared to be the common sauce, and red sauce, which was duly noted as very spicy.

I asked my Halal Guy, “What are the sauces?”

“I gave them to you. They are in the bag.”

“Yes, I know, but WHAT are they?”

“I gave them to you! They are in the bag.”

Right.

So turning the corner, there was another Guy refilling the extra sauce bottles to be used at one’s leisure.

I asked new Halal Guy, “What are the sauces?”

“The white sauce and the red sauce.”

“Yes, I know, but WHAT are they?”

“The white sauce and the red sauce!”

Yeah, OK.

I took the hot foil platter upstairs to share with Rachel, and we began to investigate. It was yummy. Really yummy. She wasn’t terribly impressed, but she never is with street/fair food.

So the sauces. The white sauce tasted like ranch dressing made with yogurt instead of mayo. It was good stuff.

Then I tried the red. It was a tiny container. Too tiny.

But I tried it anyway.

Despite my heavy Hot Wing habit back home, this was quite possibly the hottest thing I had ever eaten. Within a minute, my nose was running, my eyes were watering, and I was duly impressed.

Goodbye, red.

I’ve been nibbling far too much on this Halal as I have written this post tonight on our last night in New York.

And I am going to regret this at LaGuardia tomorrow.

Especially the red sauce.

But tonight, we are young. And the Halal Guys are making BANK outside.

BlogHer, in Bad Photos.

August 7, 2012August 7, 2012 Rachel Callahan Blogher, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Photographical Oddities

Five Benefits of Taking My Husband Along to BlogHer.

1. His analytical and strategic skills make me look like a novice. He had a plan, he knew what he was doing, and he would set up fabulous opportunities to show off our professionalism and class.

2. As the last photo also attests, he is willing to do anything.

When, in the expo hall, the Sheex lady promised him two sets of high-end sheets if he would hop into her demo bed so she could get a photograph of him because she hadn’t been able to photograph a single man in the bed, he readily agreed and asked if she’d also like me to join him.

(I did not.)

(Nor did I remember to take a photo of his very convincing sleepy face.)

3. He takes stunning, picturesque pictures of me in front of New York Landmarks.

And actually a decent one or two every now and then.

(Except for the tennis shoes. But it was New York, and I already had blisters.)

4. He doesn’t mind dressing up like a latex unicorn so that I don’t have to.

5. He’s a great swag sorter and packer.

Also? You get double swag when there’s two of you.

Speaking of Swag…

Five Pieces of Swag That I Didn’t Realize I Couldn’t Live Without.

1. A Banana Flash Drive. ONE WHOLE GIGABYTE, no less!!

(Chris was immediately dreaming of hanging his from his car radio’s USB jack.)

Speaking of swag that Chris was excited about,

2. Hot Flash Cooling Wipes.

They’re to wipe on your FOREHEAD AND NECK, people, and they supposedly make you cool for a fabulous 20 minutes.

But Chris doesn’t care that he’s not a woman or over 40 – he’s pretty exuberant about testing these out on his next run.

(I just that hope no one sees him opening a pad wrapper on his water break.)

3. Caffeine-Flavored Lip Balm. For when your lips need a pick-me-up, too.

I fully expect Ali or Noah to have eaten them all by the end of the week.

Speaking of Ali, of all of the stuffed creatures I brought her (and there were several), her favorite was…

4. Herbie Hot Pocket.

I understand that everyone needs a stuffed freezer delicacy, but I’m still shocked that she chose him over my all-time favorite stuffed creature ever,

5. Curmudgeon, the Sullen Bowling Pin.

Five (More) Benefits of Taking My Husband Along to BlogHer.

1. I have a photography assistant so I don’t have to be the complete self-absorbed dweeb who asks someone else to take my photo in front of the sign on which I was listed.

2. I can have the extra legroom of the exit row without worrying about having to throw that 42 pound door out the window if the time comes.

(As an aside, does Delta refund your $19 premium seating fee if you actually have to operate the exit row? I mean, that’s a lot of work – directing traffic and being the last one off of a burning plane and all.)

3. He’s a better face for enthusiasm for photo ops of all kinds.

My excited face…

And his.

(I especially love that his sleeve totally photobombed him.)

4. The kids like him better anyway. So it makes FaceTime more smiley.

5. When I’m completely freaked out by the crowds and huddled up inside myself in a ball of introvertedness, I don’t have to socialize with strangers!! I can just talk to him.

Five Celebrities You Absolutely MUST Meet at BlogHer.

Sure, Katie Couric, Martha Stewart, and Soledad O’Brien were there. And President Obama was even in attendance – albeit by satellite.

(I’m sure it was because he reads all of our blogs every morning with his relaxing coffee time, not because it’s election year.)

But if you want the inside scoop on which celebs you really need to meet at BlogHer, here is your exclusive guide:

1. Who would pass up the opportunity to meet soy sauce live and in the flesh?

2. Speaking of flesh…

There was that guy.

3. Chris was truly giddy to meet (and dance with) his favorite plastic,

(I told you these were crappy photos, did I not?)

4. And this celeb made me feel better about my own level of Greek Hairiness.

5. Um…

Oh.

I don’t have a fifth one.

But really, with those four, who needs another?

A New Level of Whelm.

August 6, 2012August 6, 2012 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I'm a Blog Geek

At this point every year, I typically have a well-thought out, hopefully entertaining blog post about my (mis)adventures at BlogHer. I really don’t know how, but I somehow manage to get it typed out despite woefully minimal levels of sleep and the smothering deluge of BlogHer information spinning around in my head.

But this year…I don’t have it.

I’m sorry – I really am. Allow me to offer my excuse.

Starting on Thursday, the day we left for New York, my Inconvenient Gap of Truth Post went a little crazy.

Okay, a lot crazy.

And yes, this seems like it would be a really great thing – and it is! I simply adore meeting new readers.

BUT.

Crazy takes maintenance. A LOT of maintenance.

For one, the crazy was so crazy that it crashed the server my blog was hosted on, then crashed the dedicated server that they moved me to, then crashed the doubled-in-size dedicated server, then crashed it again. And then two more times on Sunday.

(Needless to say, I wrote many a panicked email and tweet to my hosting company this weekend. And will probably switch hosts by the end of the week.)

Secondly, I am now entombed under a massive Mount McKinley of emails and comments to which I need to respond.

Thirdly, the crazy doesn’t seem to be waning much, which means that my burial is only going to continue to reach new depths. And I really don’t like to be behind, so I will be nervous over my lack of response until I get it done.

And finally, I’m pretty sure that Gap now has a restraining order against me.

So. Why do I tell you all of this?

Because I had to have some excuse for this sorry lack of a blog post.

And because I want you to know that my commitment still stands: I will answer every email and comment-with-a-question that I have received. But please be patient with me – it’s going to take a while, especially since I missed my kids like crazy this weekend and I will still only be using naptimes to somehow get all of this done.

But please know that I really do love getting to know all of you – just like I explained a co uple of weeks ago, I blog for the relationships, remember each of you and think fond thoughts about you often, and I have met many of my close friends solely because of blogging.

So if you’re new around here, please feel free to introduce yourself in the comments below!

(Just be patient for my answer. I read everything in real time, but answering takes a bit more focus.)

And if you’re not at all new around here, please don’t run off or quit talking to me because it got a bit crowded. Just like a new restaurant, the shine will wear off and then it will be totally back to normal around here.

Because if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s shiny.

(Except on hot Alabama days.)

(Which means that I’m shiny about 80% of the year.)

Okay. I’m done here. And off to my email inbox.

Update: Thanks for bearing with me – my site has been going up and down all day, and was completely down around lunchtime for about an hour. It **seems** to be up now, but please let me know if you have any other trouble with it. I’m doing what I can to keep it afloat, but it hasn’t been easy. Thanks, y’all!

She Left Me.

August 3, 2012August 2, 2012 Rachel Callahan Blogher, Guest Post, NoahBlogs, Toddlers: The Experience

Hi there! Noah here.

Hold on a minute. Let me get my camera adjusted right.

Okay. That’s better.

So I have some really sad news.

The Servant Who Calls Herself Mommy left me.

And even worse than that?? She Took The Daddy with her.

It’s really a bummer, because I’ve really gotten to where I can fully appreciate the finer points of his existence.

When SHE’S not around? He lets us eat Frozen Yogurt for dinner. And when SHE’S not around? I don’t have to wear pants.

She could really stand to take some parenting advice from him, ya know?

But speaking of pants, I really hope that they take this opportunity to do some shopping for me.

Have you SEEN how bad my Diaper Toe is getting?

Last week a Smocked-Out Kid on the playground totally pointed to my crotch and laughed.

So I pointed back at his Pleated, Embroidered, Toy Soldiered John John and snorted.

I bet he’s the same kid that grows up and wears suspenders and double-pleated plaid pants to the office. SMH.

Anyway. Back to The Servant Who Calls Herself Mommy.

I’d kind of gathered from her tweeting and shopping and printing that she was going to BlogHer again, but why The Daddy wanted to go with her, I’ll never understand.

I mean seriously, wouldn’t it be more fun to keep this precious face by yourself for a few days???

He guiltily mumbled something about “alone time” and “reconnecting” and “hotel room”, but I think it’s all just a big excuse to play with their toys by themselves.

I’m gonna miss those iPhones.

But there’s always the hope of swag.

Last year, she brought back an extra 30 pound suitcase full of the stuff.

I was so excited when I saw that bag of awesomeness that I peed a little.

(Okay, a lot.)

But then she opened that bag. And started handing stuff out.

And The Sister Who Calls Herself Ali got all of this:

And all I got was Pureed Broccoli in Tube Form and numbing gel.

A year later and I’m STILL bitter.

And she’s still smug.

So this year, I’ve been working on a plan.

For revenge.

Oh, it’s a good one too.

That pureed broccoli? It’s still in the pantry. Just waiting for a big kid like me to find it.

And for a neat, clean, OCD, prissy kid like her to not be looking…

And at the exact right moment…as she’s opening up her bag of completely unfair, ridiculously unproportional amounts of swag….

I’ll gather up all the might in my little body, and ….

STOMP.

Pureed Broccoli will cover her and all of her brand new prizes.

Can you imagine the beautiful cacophony of squealing that will commence???

And if I’m lucky, a bit will get on The Servant Who Calls Herself Mommy, too.

I know, right? It’s good.

REEEEAL good.

Enjoy that hotel room, suckers! Because you’re gonna have a historic mess to clean up when you get home.

On Taxing the Colonists.

August 2, 2012August 1, 2012 Rachel Callahan Utter Silliness

I offer many public services to my children.

If you get down to it, we’re basically a communist nation around here.

They do what I tell them to do, and then I choose what to pay them. I provide the food, the transportation, the rules, the housing, and even the clothing.

(Although I at times allow them to have some creative license in how to use it.)

Basically, I OWN them.

But I don’t demand much. Just a small tax here and there.

For instance, there’s The Oreo Tax.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask to tax the cream out of every Oreo.

And after all. Everyone knows that Oreos taste better without the cream. Especially if it was a Double Stuf – you know that thing would have been too sweet for you kids.

If there are PEZ to be doled out, all yellow and orange PEZ’s go straight to The Queen.

So when it’s a multi-pack, sometimes you’re lucky, and sometimes you’re not.

At least three pieces out of every pack of gummies must be paid in taxes. And none of the freaky opaque gummies – only the translucent ones are acceptable to pay your debts.

If you get a real lemonade when out to eat (none of that Minute Maid “0% Juice” crap – there’s no tax on that), the first sip must be taxed – you know, to make sure it was made well that day.

If you get a Kid’s Meal somewhere that has free ice cream, such as DQ or Hamburger Heaven, you get to keep the entire kid’s meal – and only have to pay the ice cream as your tax.

And a Full Moon BBQ, where they give you a gourmet chocolate chip cookie half dipped in rich, nutty chocolate with your kid’s meal, all I ask is that you let me suck approximately 80% of the chocolate off.

These are not unreasonable demands.

But I know how colonists are. They want freedom, not realizing all of the incredible services offered to them by their home country. And so the possibility for revolt is always there.

So if any of you ever hear about a war that is started by the mass dumping of de-creamed Oreos into the toilet out of protest and rebellion, now you know why.

And when my children decolonize from me, and then come proudly parading by me with their own flags, I’m sure I’ll look just this grumpy.

Alright, fellow Sovereigns Over the Shorter Class, your turn.

Confess your own taxes excised on the lives of your citizens.