Rachel Callahan

Time for Formal Introductions.

July 29, 2012August 8, 2012 Rachel Callahan I'm a Blog Geek

So Hi!

Let me introduce myself. I’m Rachel, and this is my home.

I’ve had a few posts making the rounds on Pinterest and a few other places lately, and as a result, there are a bunch of new readers that have been hanging around.

And I always like to get to know new people, so today, I’m talkin’ to you.

The first thing you should know about me is that I adore interacting with my readers. I’ve read plenty of blogger’s “About Me” pages that have given some sort of apology with their email address such as, “Here’s my email address, but the chances of me having time to answer you are pretty much less than Conan and Leno joining forces and creating a collaborative show. So feel free to email me – if you like talking to an echoing cyberwall.”

I am the complete opposite.

I get ridiculously excited when I get an email from a reader, and I promise that I will respond within a day or three. If you don’t get a response, then either your email got stuck in my spam filter or my response got stuck in yours.

(Unless you’re the son of the President of Equatorial Guinea and are wanting me to help you smuggle your fortunes out of the country. Then I’m most likely not going to answer you.)

So if you ever have a question, comment, suggestion, funny photo, blog idea, or just want to say hey, please feel free to email me at graspingforobjectivity@gmail.com.

Also, about the comments.

Every time I visit a blog, I muse to myself, “I wonder how many comments it takes for them to know who I am?”

Around here, it’s 1 to 5.

If you tell me something unique and personal about you in your first comment, I’m likely to keep that framework in my mind and think fond thoughts about you often.

(Unless that unique and personal thing is that you hate me with every fiber of your being. I’ll still remember you, though – no worries about that one.)

If you comment more generically, I will categorize you as a distinct individual somewhere between your first and fifth comment. This has to do with how unique your name is.

If your name is Clarissa, I promise to remember you immediately.

Ooh! Or Tori.

But if your name is Rachel (people are attracted to like-named bloggers), Jennifer, or Julie, be patient. It might take me a minute longer to assign you an individual compartment in my brain.

I also try to reply to as many comments as possible, and do my darndest to visit my reader’s blogs, because I do this whole blogging thing for the relationships.

Have I mentioned that?

I really like you guys.

If you want to read some posts that further explain who I am and what I do at this blog, here are some suggestions.

~ I like turning subjective stuff into objective stuff:

Bathing Practices as Indicated in Children: A Scientific Study.
The Categories of Scream.
The Presidenim Election.

~ I like solving mysteries:

Dr. Pepper Ten: An Investigative Report.
Uncle Joe’s Tot Locker: An Investigative Report.
On Meeting the Party Friends.

~ I like finding new ways to explain life:

Parenting, 2.0.
Social Media Policy for Labor and Birth.
United Toddler’s Union, United Mommy’s Union, and Mommy Benefits Package.

~ I like capturing the chill-bump inspiring moments of life:

Yard Bunny
Tiny Bits of Grace

~ I don’t exactly mean to, but I have a way of telling my stories and, in the process, making giant corporations despise me.

The Chuck.
The Inconvenient Gap of Truth.
Can’t Buy Me Love.
Zulily. Really??
How it Feels to be Hated By a Celebrity.

…and perhaps make one or two happy every now and then.

Frequently Asked Idiocies
The Mommybloggermobile

~ I occasionally share some homeschooling and/or child-teaching tips:

Geography, Pre-K Style
Best Educational iPad/iPhone Apps
On Creating a Miniature Shopkeeper
Creatively Encouraging Reading and Writing
Geography Geektasticness

~ And even a craft project or two, this coming from a very uncrafty person:

Paint Chip Art
How to Make Word Search Gift Wrap
Framed
Tangled Birthday Party

~ And I like offering “helpful” tips for life:

Kiosk Warfare: A Guide for Survival.
Baby Tips.
A Shredded Diary.
The Decaffeination Report.
How to Act When They’re Expecting.
On How to Diaper a Newborn.

But seriously – enough about me.

Back to you.

If you’re new around here, or have just never properly introduced yourself, or if you’ve been around from the beginning but just want to tell me something new, it’s your turn to talk.

Say hey!

Tell me where you’re from!

Tell me something unique about you!

Ask me anything you’d like to know!

Snag your much-deserved compartment in my brain!

I look forward to getting to know all of you.

The Scientific Study of Chick Cars.

July 27, 2012July 26, 2012 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Survey Says. . .

A few months ago, My Dad was tossing around the idea of buying an old(ish) sports car.

(Clearly, something very unhealthy was in our family’s air during the month of May.)

He was planning a Grand 40th Anniversary Adventure with my Mom – something really spectacular – and he needed to right car to set it off.

(By the way – he is also blogging about their adventure here – you should follow him. You’ll be glad you did.)

On the first iteration of this plan, he informed me that he was thinking about getting a Mazda Miata.

“WHAT?! Dad!! You can’t get a Miata!! It’s a total Chick Car!!”

“A what?”

“How can you not know this?? You’re the epitome of a car guy. Miatas are total Chick Cars.”

“Really? I’ve never thought of them as a Chick Car.”

“Have you SEEN her with her eyes open??”

“Well, I think they’re great! And besides, our Pastor drives one. Is his a Chick Car?”

“Well, his has all sorts of racing edition stuff on it, and a really revved-up engine. And it’s a newer model, which really helps. And he kinda gets a pass because he has a history with Miatas. So…not entirely.”

(Please – no one send a link of this post to my Pastor. And if his wife is reading, let’s just keep this our secret.)

I troubled my Dad’s soul more than I realized. The next time I saw him, he said,

“So I’m thinking about getting a Mustang. Is that a Chick Car?”

“What happened to the Miata?”

“Well, you happened to it. So what about the Mustang?”

“It depends on the year. The 90’s model was definitely a Chick Car. But when they went retro in the mid 2000’s, it reverted back.”

“Good to know.”

I actually did feel guilty about popping my Dad’s Miata Bubble. But every time I saw a dude driving around in one or folding himself into the driver’s seat, I found myself giggling on the inside. I felt better about the fate from which I saved my Father.

And then, as I was bearing my MiataGuilt to some of my friends, they told me about the “Yes, Dear” episode that was all about the Miata being a Chick Car. And if I needed any more evidence, the Miata is the main Chick Car referenced on Urban Dictionary.

Yes, I had truly been a helper.

So I decided that it was high time for a Chick Car Index to be created – you know, to help more people make informed buying decisions.

But if I just made the judgments on my own, they certainly wouldn’t be scientific, and I’d have all sorts of haters leave nasty comments.

Because if people can get all worked up about jeans (and believe me they do), then how much more angry could they get about the supposed gender of their car?

Yeah.

So I decided to crowdsource the blame. An official survey was in order.

With the weightiness of this information in mind, it is critically imperative that you answer these questions as soon as possible. Please feel free to have your husbands, brothers, mothers, and third cousins twice removed weigh in as well.

1. What cars do you consider to be Chick Cars?

2. What cars do you consider to be Dude Cars?

3. What cars are completely androgynous?

And If you’ve never considered the gender of car models, the time is now, people. Start pondering.

I’ll compile my opinions with yours in a complete geeked-out graphed-up scientific study.

Oh – and by the way. My Dad’s final choice of car for their Grand Anniversary Adventure?

This one:

That, my friends, is no Chick Car.

I am awaiting with open spreadsheet for your Chick Car votes. And better yet, weigh in on each other’s votes as well (with much respect and southern charm please) so that we’re all talking about the same cars.

You could be contributing to a study that could upturn the car industry, so consider your choices vigilantly.

My New Favorite Meal.

July 24, 2012July 24, 2012 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Can I get a copy of that recipe?, The Blissfulness of Life

Yeah.

Doesn’t that look amazing??

Because it is.

I made it three weeks ago and have craved it ever since. If I can make it through writing this post without tossing down my computer, running to the store, and turning on the crock pot, it’s going to be a miracle.

And I owe it all to you guys.

Yup – if it weren’t for you, I would have never found this recipe.

When I blogged about my roast angsts a few weeks back, several of you offered great advice. And, in particular, both Holly and Chelle recommended the cookbook Slow Cooker Revolution by America’s Test Kitchen. I Amazoned it: 200 thoroughly tested Crock-Pot recipes from a completely unbiased test kitchen (The Consumer Reports of cooking). It sounded fascinating, so I ordered it immediately.

And I was not disappointed.

I spent a long morning sitting by the baby pool drooling on all the photos and post-it-note flagging every other recipe, but there was one recipe that I knew was absolutely meant for me.

Tomatillo Chili with Pork and Hominy.

I have a slight obsession with Tomatillos, but rarely see any recipes calling for them other than salsas. And I love chili. Plus, cilantro! And even though it listed two items that I wasn’t even sure what they were (hominy and tapioca), I managed to find them with only a little bit of humiliating grocery store ignorance.

One disclaimer: This is not a toss-it-all-into-the-slow-cooker in three minutes type of recipe – it needs about 30 minutes of prep time. So if you’re looking for a zero prep meal, this isn’t it. But if you’re looking for THE BEST THING YOU EVER ATE OUT OF A CROCK-POT, this is most absolutely it.

So, here’s the recipe.

(And yes, I did get permission from America’s Test Kitchen to share this. Thanks, guys!)

Ingredients:

1 1/2 lbs Tomatillos (16-20), husks and stems removed, rinsed well, dried and halved.
1 Onion, cut into chunks
4 Garlic Cloves, minced
1 tbsp Minced Fresh Oregano or 1 tsp of dried Oregano (I couldn’t find fresh, so I went with dried)
1 tsp Ground Cumin
Pinch Ground Cloves
Pinch Ground Cinnamon
3 tbsp Vegetable Oil
2 15 oz. cans White or Yellow Hominy, drained and rinsed
2 1/2 cups Low Sodium Chicken Broth
3 Poblano Chiles, stemmed seeded and minced
3 tbsp Minute Tapioca
2 tsp Sugar
2 Bay Leaves
4 lb Boneless Pork Butt Roast, trimmed and cut into 1.5 inch chunks (I got my grocery store butcher to cut mine into 1 inch chunks – I always like chunks smaller than recipes recommend.)
1/4 c Minced Fresh Cilantro

Directions:

Put an oven rack 6 inches from your broiler element, set your oven on broil.

I already mentioned the husking, stemming, rinsing, drying and halving of tomatillos. If you’re not sure what they are, they’re kinda hybrids between tomatoes and peppers:

Husking them can be very copacetic, and also creates a pretty pile of Tinkerbell outfits. Bonus!

So. Toss the tomatillos with the onions, garlic, oregano, cumin, cloves, cinnamon, and oil.

Spread them onto an aluminum-foil lined baking sheet, and broil them until the vegetables are blackened and begin to soften (around 10 minutes). Rotate the pan halfway through broiling.

Let the vegetables cool slightly, then pulse them, along with their juices, in the food processor until almost smooth. Dump into your slow cooker.

Next it’s time for mystery ingredient number one, hominy. I’m still not sure exactly what it is, but according to Wikipedia, it’s definition is “dried maize kernels which have been treated with an alkali in a process called nixtamalization.”

Yummy. Sounds organic.

At any rate, this is what hominy looks like:

Stir the hominy, broth, poblanos, tapioca, sugar, and bay leaves into slow cooker.

(By the way, Wikipedia has an explanation for tapioca, too: it’s “a starch extracted from cassava.” This is turning into the most educational recipe ever.)

Season the pork with salt and pepper, and nestle (yes! The recipe actually says “nestle!”) into slow cooker.

Cover and cook until pork is tender: 9-11 hours on low, or 5-7 hours on high (I went with high for about 6 hours – my preparations are never 9-11 hours ahead of time.)

Let the chili settle for 5 minutes, then remove fat from the surface using a large spoon (I always find this process very therapeutic as well.) Discard bay leaves. Stir in cilantro, then season with salt and pepper to taste (it was a lot for me) and serve.

I wish you could see the falling-apart tenderness of that pork. It was magical.

And the hominy? I had no idea that I was such a hominy fan. It’s the most tasty alkalied nixtamalizationed product ever.

We’re a fan of mix-ins for chili and soup, so we also added the following table accessories:

Sour Cream (Oh my GOODNESS it was a wonderful addition)
Shredded Cheese (Chris liked it, but I thought it was an unnecessary addition of calories)
Tortilla chips, for crunch and for scooping (a very nice touch, if I may say so myself)

So. I expect all of you to cook this next week – you, your spouse, and your progeny will all thank me with vast amounts of sentimental, grateful weeping.

Edited to add: Since we count calories, I added up all of the ingredients and divided by 8 servings (which is just about exactly what it turned out to be), and there are 477 calories per serving in this dish.

Birthday Chow.

July 23, 2012August 18, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, It's Tough Being a Girl, Storytime

Chris has never been one to shy away from the concept of using birthday credit.

(Nor have I, as I prefer to have a birthday month.)

Usually, about three months before his birthday, he starts throwing things out there that he’d like to have, do, or eat on his birthday.

This year, however, was surprising. There had been little mention of his birthday and the grand dreams surrounding it.

I finally asked him. “So. What do you want to do on your birthday? Do you want me to cook a favorite meal? Go out with the kids? Go out without the kids?”

He pondered his options.

He threw a few ideas out there.

We discussed them and I, in typical generous birthday fashion, told him that we could do whatever he wanted.

Somehow that triggered a process in his internal RAM.

“I know what I want to do.”

“Sure! What?”

“I want to go to that new Chinese Buffet in Hoover. I do like a good Chinese* Buffet**, and it’s something that I would never make you do if it weren’t my birthday. So it’s the best use of my Birthday Credit. Plus, Katherine*** says it’s good.”

I took a deep breath and said, “Okay – it’s your birthday. I’ll do it for you.”

* I hate Chinese Food. I blame this on my parents – they didn’t like it when we were growing up, so our Chinese Taste Buds were never properly developed.

(As an aside, they have since decided that they like it and occasionally invite me to join them at a Chinese restaurant. I remind them of what they did to me and tersely decline.)

** I also hate buffets. I blame this on becoming a bit of a foodie over the past several years. And on calorie counting.

*** Katherine is one of our good Twitter friends. Or should I say Chris’ good Twitter friend. Her endorsement of this restaurant has definitely impacted our relationship.

So the day arrived.

After much at-home celebration, we set off for dinner. Chris asked if I wanted to take some ham-in-a-bag to sneak in and eat at the restaurant.

Or if I wanted stop at the doc-in-a-box and get an antibiotic shot.

But I was determined to have a good attitude and not ruin my husband’s birthday meal. I would grin and bear it.

We arrived in the parking lot.

And there he was, looming before me like a Chinese Jabba The Hut, waiting to engulf me into his slimy folds of flab.

The name alone made me convulse.

I looked down at the pavement, hoping to discover the courage within. Instead, I just saw this:

Rubber Gloves. The Must-Have accessory for any buffet. And I hadn’t brought any.

We walked into the eerie restaurant via it’s oddly corporate entryway.

When we went through the second set of doors, the smell assaulted me, infiltrating my every pore with nausea and deflating any sense of appetite that had formerly been residing in my body.

Chris, on the other hand, was a happy man.

“Oh, it smells just like it should!”

They led us through rows and rows of aisles and aisles of rooms and rooms of pristine, empty booths. As if they had never been sat in. As if everyone knew better. But us.

Noah, like myself, was uncertain of this vast, echoing, empty establishment. Was that mysterious room in the middle of the restaurant where they harvested the humans that walked through their doors? Would Kung Pao Noah be on the buffet tomorrow??

Chris went first and got the kids some food. Ali was oblivious to mine and Noah’s misgivings.

Mental Note: don’t let her out of my sight. The unsuspecting ones are always the first to go. And she would not make a good eggroll filling.

Next, Chris went to get his own plate.

When he got back and began to chow down on his protein overdose, I began my own plod to the chopping block.

I walked through more empty dining rooms to get to “The Food Room”. The smell overwhelmed me so that I could barely see. When I regained my wits, I looked around. It contained innumerable buffet tables, mostly full of depressed-looking dead animals.

The shrimp cocktail drooped their sad tails in my general direction.

The…(was that chicken?) looked like someone killed its best friend (they probably did).

The giant fish filet was floating in a lake of murk, exactly as I imagined the Horcrux Cave Lake would look. I stared for a moment, then was relieved that no Inferi reached out their hands to grab me and pull me under the slimy surface. Because there was no Harry Potter anywhere nearby to save me.

I circled the room a couple of times, looking for anything edible.

It was difficult, but I finally decided on a salad.

And, to venture a little further into this culinary experience, I also risked it all and got the tomato and cucumber salad, and a piece of the InferiFish.

When I arrived back at our table, Chris looked at my plates.

“I’m not going to say a word if you won’t.”

“I’m fine – enjoy your feast.”

I started with the tomato and cucumbers. They were edible, albeit nothing I would ever choose to heap onto my plate normally.

I ate a bite of the InferiFish.

I swallowed hard.

I covered it in salt and tried again.

No, this fish wouldn’t be happening.

I moved on to the salad. The ranch actually tasted rotten.

What is wrong with me?? I am NOT this much of a food snob.

I began to focus my energy on helping Noah eat his dinner, hoping that Chris didn’t notice my own lack of culinary delight.

It didn’t work.

“What’s wrong with your salad?”

“The Ranch tastes funny. Like it’s gone bad or something.”

“You mean the same Ranch that Ali and I are dipping our chicken in? It’s fine.”

I tried it again – it clearly tasted like rot.

I pondered my situation. I really thought I would do better than this – I am not this high maintenance!

Then I realized – it must be the smell. I cannot abide the smell of Chinese food – it creates an uncontrollable nausea in the pit of my stomach. That was what was making everything taste awful.

For the next 15 minutes, I pushed the food around my plate, trying to look convincing.

The waitress came by.

“Any plates are finish?”

“I’m done – you can take these two.”

She looked at the plates, offended by my lack of indulgence.

“You want me to take these two plate?!”

“Yes, I’m done.”

“You mean these two. Here.”

“Yup.”

She picked up my plates and walked off with a considerable amount of offense in her stride.

She came back, bearing fortune cookies.

Relieved to finally find something I knew I could eat, I ripped into my package and tugged out my fortune.

…”SHOULD” being the key word there.

We paid and walked out, and I let out a giant sigh in relief as the quirky motorized mother cat waved goodbye.

Because really, she made everything so much less creepy.

Epilogue:

Chris was a happy man. Not that he got the best meal he could have chosen, but that he maximized the usage of Birthday Credit. I was sure to bring him to the understanding that he had used his next ten Birthday Credits as well.

I literally did come down with a spontaneous cold…or allergic reaction…or something immediately after we left the restaurant. It haunted me for days, taunting me about those few bites of InferiFish still swimming around in my gut.

We left with both children in tact. I’m still not sure what that mysterious inner room was for. I hope I never find out.

The Great Birthday Pinterest Rebellion.

July 20, 2012July 9, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore., Kids: The Experience., Lego Love, The Blissfulness of Life

I’ve been very focused on Pinterest lately. Understanding the geeky intricacies of how best to use it and track it as a blogger, getting ideas for projects to do with Ali, and simply enjoying all the pretty pictures.

But on Chris’ birthday, I woke up feeling Old School.

Something had jogged a memory that was hiding deep in the concourses of my brain.

When we were kids, my Dad absolutely hated the winter.

To help cheer him up, my Mom led us in an annual celebration of Groundhog’s Day. Us three kids and my Mom would spend hours preparing celebratory construction paper art – flowers hanging from the ceiling, grassy knolls above the fireplace, and butterflies hanging from the light fixtures.

(I’m pretty sure I did the bulk of the Spring Shape Cutting. Brothers are such lazy mooches when it comes to construction paper décor.)

But creating all of that was girl heaven.

So last Tuesday morning, I decided to try to recreate Construction Paper Utopia: we would have an Ali-directed craft day to celebrate Chris’ birthday.

Ali was thrilled with the idea, especially since she had been quite distraught that Chris would have to go to work. ON HIS BIRTHDAY. So having a Daddy-related distraction helped make that unsavory morsel of data fade in it’s awfulness in her little brain.

I gave her paper, markers, glue, craft punches, and scissors, and only gave my assistance or direction when she asked.

This led to some fabulous signage.

Pinterest-Unworthy, maybe.

Keepsake-Worthy, definitely.

A few weeks before, Ali had also told me exactly what she wanted to get Chris for his birthday: The Lego Bible For Kids.

(I had already bought him The Lego Bible for Christmas, but we quickly realized that it wasn’t exactly shareable with Ali.)

(Unless we wanted her to find out how babies are born via Lego illustrations, along with other such educational visuals.)

She was confused and a bit disappointed in this Adult-Lego book, so I had reassured her that we’d get him the one for kids when it was released. And seven months later, she remembered that promise.

So I wrapped it, then let her bling it out.

“Hape Brthday To Th Daddy Namnd Cris”

(And yes, I did help her spell extraordinaire.)

She finished Round One of decorations with quite a bit of pride in her work.

(She’s also been watching a lot of Wheel of Fortune lately.)

“This is SO MUCH FUN!!!” ~ I heard that phrase at least 20 times throughout the morning. She asked to continue her crafting during quiet time, so we set her up a crafting station in her bedroom.

I gave her everything she needed, including (adult) scissors. As I left the room, she was bent over, letting one of her stuffed animals color on a card.

“Don’t cut your clothes, your hair, your carpet, or your skin with the scissors, okay?”

“I won’t! That’s why I’m not going to let my friends use my scissors. They are ONLY allowed to color.”

Quiet time resulted in zero injuries and twelve more birthday signs.

So I had to get creative in order to display them all.

We had door art,

bunting,

and had to double stack our fireplace scene.

The only Pinterest-worthy item that we did obtain were the world’s best Cake Pops from Jamie and her Rabbits.

Photo via Jamie

She created “All About Chris” cake pops, so there were football cake pops, half-marathon cake pops, “36” cake pops, party cake pops, guitar cake pops, and… Hell Pops?!?

Photo via Jamie

“Lake of Fire” wasn’t exactly what I was thinking when I told her that Chris was currently teaching Sunday School on Revelation, but I guess a fifty-mile-cubed New Jerusalem made of jasper, gold, sapphire, emerald, onyx, ruby, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, turquoise, jacinth, and amethyst surrounded by twelve gates made of single pearls would be a lot to ask on a cake pop.

Plus, Hell Pops are especially tasty. Who knew?

Ali didn’t give up decorating until Chris was literally walking in the door – she clocked some serious hours on this project.

But her hard work paid off. She had a very happy Daddy.

(Mostly about the cake pops.)

But that feeling was quite mutual.

The Burden of Breadsticks.

July 18, 2012March 17, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Weird Strange and True

As I have mentioned before, we are fairly serious about eating local – with a couple of choice exceptions.

Chick-Fil-A, of course, doesn’t count – it is a necessary staple of all families-with-small-children’s diets.

And another is The Olive Garden. Chris and I have a deep-felt adoration for The Olive Garden, as it is one of the only places left that meant something to us when we were dating – everything else fell victim to Our Curse.

So, as culinarily unacceptable as it may be, we still visit The Olive Garden every now and then. And even more rarely, we take the children along.

On the particularly fateful visit at hand, they only had booths available, so Noah had to try the difficult task of staying in a booster seat.

To distract him from the many opportunities for escape, he started out trapped between Chris and Ali:

After a few long minutes of many attempts at causing chaos, he moved to The Booster seat next to me, where he immediately dumped all of the sugar packets and began trying to summon invisible liquid to come out of the sweetener holder.

Blessedly, breadsticks finally arrived, which kept him happy for about … 23.5 seconds.

But this story has nothing to do with Noah.

It’s about our waiter. He was new. Let’s call him Bud.

Bud was a young guy, probably a teenager. He was talking to a table of four guys when we sat down, and after a few minutes that we made inordinately long by Noah’s attempts at destruction, he finally turned around to get our drink orders.

“Hi! Welcome to The Olive Garden. What can I get y’all to…

Wait a minute.

(to himself, he whispered) is this my table?

HEY!! CARISSA!!! Is this my table?”

Carissa was no longer within earshot, so he disappeared to find her.

Apparently Carissa did affirm that we were indeed Bud’s table, because after a tortuously long five more minutes, he returned.

“Hi! Welcome to The Olive Garden. What can I get y’all to drink?”

He took our orders, then went back to talking to the table across from us.

I got a good look at them: four guys in their mid-thirties, who were awarded the exquisite privilege of hearing our waiter’s entire life story.

During the next fifteen minutes, as he managed to squeeze in bringing us our drinks and taking our food orders, he told them,

Where Bud used to live (in a $248,000 house in Clay),
Where Bud lives now (in an inexpensive and dangerous part of town),
Why Bud moved (because his Dad got laid off),
How much Bud’s Dad used to make ($70,000 a year),
What kind of car Bud drives (“did you see the red GT in the parking lot?”),
Where Bud used to work (Ruby Tuesday),
How much Bud spent per week on gas to get to his old job (half of his paycheck),
And how much harder it was to work here as opposed to there.

“Yeah, man. At Ruby Tuesday, all you have to do is bring people their food and refill there drinks. But here??? You have to bring breadsticks!! And salad!! And refill their breadsticks and salad!!!! It’s ridiculous, man.”

Apparently Olive Garden is the coal mining of food service. Only the strong survive. Good luck Bud.

Chris managed to get a word in between the intimate details of Bud’s Life Story and ask for more breadsticks and a drink refill for Ali, thereby making this poor kid’s job infinitely more ludicrous.

Bud dragged himself to our table and huffily handed me the breadsticks, not having the time nor energy to place them all the way down on the table. Then he turned around and started talking to the four guys again – before handing Chris Ali’s lemonade.

We watched, puzzled. And then, without turning around or looking in our direction, Bud reached his arm back, lemonade in hand, for Chris to take.

We sat there and stared at this comically back-extended arm for a second, drinking in the fabulousness of the moment.

Then, still without looking, he shook his drink-bearing arm impatiently, veering dangerously near Chris’ face with the lemonade.

Chris quickly saved the lemonade (and his own head) from danger.

A few minutes later, I couldn’t hear his words, but it was clear that he was back to expounding on the preposterous demands of his job. Bud’s voice raised a notch as he said, “Like these guys!!”, and exaggeratedly gestured in our direction.

I nearly spit my so-difficult-to-come-by drink.

Finally, the table of men left, and he was left with no one but us to talk to. Plus, I think he realized that the whole back-handing a drink at a table may not be the best tip-attaining strategy. So all-too-suddenly, Bud was our best friend.

Every 90 seconds, he’d pop up from nowhere.

Blink, blink.

“Hi! You need anything?”

“Nope, we’re good.”

Blink, blink.

“Do you guys need anything now?”

“Nope, still fine.”

Blink, blink.

“How about now?”

“uh-uh.”

Blink, blink.

“Can I get you a refill on that drink?”

“It’s still full.”

Blink, blink.

“Would you like more breadsticks?”

“Nope.”

Blink, blink.

“Can I do anything for you?”

“No.”

Blink, blink.

“How is everything?”

“Fine.”

Blink, blink.

“Do you need any more drinks?”

“Still to the brim.”

Blink, blink.

“Ready for your check?”

“Never been so ready in our lives.”

So. Keep your eyes out for Bud: Coming soon to a restaurant near you!

(Preferably one that doesn’t serve breadsticks.)

(Or salad.)

If you see a red GT in the parking lot, prepare yourself for the meal of a lifetime!

The Circle of Life.

July 17, 2012July 16, 2012 Rachel Callahan Every Now and Then I Can Be Sappy Too.

The way I see it #36:

It can’t be so bad to get old

when you’ve thoroughly created a carbon copy of yourself.

…right down to the facial expressions.

(albeit perhaps with a bit more attitude.)

It’s such a good idea, I think I’ll give it a try myself.

Happy 36th to the man who helped me create all of my mini superheroes.

The Perils of The Park.

July 16, 2012July 21, 2020 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Popular Posts, Smocktastic

When I woke up Saturday morning, Chris came to talk to me about the day’s plans.

“So it’s relatively not-too-hot outside, and it’s not supposed to rain, so I was thinking we should take the kids to the park.”

I groaned.

“The park? It’s Saturday. There’s going to be a birthday party going on – I guarantee it.”

I am not, in general, against birthday parties. However, as I have mentioned before, we live adjacent to a fancy suburb of Birmingham. Therefore, all nearby parks are in said suburb, since we live in unincorporated Jefferson County, a county is beyond bankrupt (a story for another day) and so of course we have no parks of our own.

And when you have a birthday party at a park in a prestigious suburb in Alabama, it is nearly guaranteed to be a smock-required birthday party.

Smock in and of itself is, as I have said before, a personal choice – I know a lot of people who dearly adore their smock in the same way that one would feel about a precious Grandmother, or perhaps a cherished 15-year-old Bassett Hound (one of these smock lovers has even guest-posted here), but when you combine smock + birthday party + prestigious suburb + park, it can tend to get a bit intimidating.

But I couldn’t come up with a better idea, so I agreed to his plan.

We arrived at the park. Proving my prophetic powers to be quite accurate, we immediately saw that the pavilion was completely Pinterested-Out with fabulous party deco, at least 30 place settings were meticulously designed on the picnic tables, and an entire side of the pavilion was overflowing with presents.

Oooooh boy. It’s going to be a doozy.

Within a few minutes, the place was (quite literally) crawling with smock.

And running, and walking, and screaming, and playing.

Dozens of parents were running around, photographing their $100+ clad children.

Knowing that our very presence was a bother, I tried to console myself by tweeting about it.

At the park. There’s a smock-required birthday party going on. Hope my kids don’t ruin the background of their photos. pic.twitter.com/NhL5riWE

— Rachel Callahan (@ObjectivityRach) July 14, 2012

Every mother in attendance was also in uniform: full-length maxi dresses (despite the fact that it was July in Alabama), 4-inch+ wedge heels (in which they were unsuccessfully trying to maneuver the sadistic wood-chip playground), and a significantly pregnant belly. The latter being a fact that Chris also noticed:

There are a lot of pregnant bellies at the park this morning. I need to get @ObjectivityRach out of here. #knowwhentoholdem

— Chris Callahan (@RehpoChris) July 14, 2012

I tried to stay where I belonged: on the other side of the sidewalk. After all, I live in the county – I know my place.

Ali took Chris on an adventure through her secret park trails. On the way back, I saw her running straight through the birthday party scene to come get me.

I groaned, knowing that she was surely messing up the utopian scene.

For the record, she wasn’t at all poorly dressed – she was wearing my favorite brand, an adorable Tea Collection outfit, that by any other standard would be quite perfect.

But Tea Collection is no smock.

Noah, on the other hand, was wearing a Carter’s romper that was at least two sizes too small, giving him a very special case of Diaper Toe.

Which, on this city’s scale of acceptable children’s attire, is nearly a felony.

But Ali wanted me to come see her secret trail. Which meant that I, also, would have to cross the sidewalk.

On the way back, Noah stopped for a moment to admire an especially interesting blade of grass.

At which time, I noticed one of the moms taking a posed photo of a Smock and her Dad.

She was about 20 feet in front of Noah, but I realized that he was indeed making my tweet come true and was going to be in the backdrop of her photo unless I acted quickly.

Right as I was turning around to go back and snatch him from his undesirable location, she lowered her camera, motioned angrily for her muses to wait a moment, cocked her head in my direction, and just stared at me.

A long, hard, bore-a-hole-through-your-hypothalamus stare.

She didn’t have to say it.

I knew what she meant.

Her thoughts were loud enough.

“Please remove your Diaper-Toed County-Dwelling Blight from my photo. Immediately.”

My heart raced as I felt the condemnation of her cutting gaze. I grabbed him up so quickly I probably added a wedgie to his list of wardrobial issues, then took off as fast as I could – back to The Other Side of the Sidewalk.

Ten Tips for Vacation Rental Owners.

July 13, 2012July 12, 2012 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, Yes I'm a beach bum. What of it?

1. Do not decorate your rental condo with fake fruit.

Because if you do, your renter’s kids will do this. All day,

Every day.

And their parents might or might not remember to run them through the dishwasher before they leave.

(The fruit, that is.)

2. Even if you typically have short-term renters, do not assume that they don’t need closet space.

They do. Because little people will be sleeping in those closets.

And yes, even if you don’t have walk-in closets, your guests will figure out how to cram their children into those, as well.

3. Try to have mattresses that don’t creak with the cacophony of laying on a sack of accordions every time someone shifts a half inch in position.

Remember, little people are sleeping in closets just across the room.

4. Do not decorate with fake cheese or bread. Whoever’s great-great-grandmother’s top-of-the-refrigerator that you swiped those from is surely feeling empty right now.

But if you insist, at least dust them every year or two. Toddlers don’t prefer the taste of dust mites on their fake food.

5. Fireworks at your complex on the Fourth of July is understandable.

Delaying them until 10pm is not. You do realize that kid-bedtime is 7pm, and 9pm on an especially generous vacation night, right?

Fireworks on the 5th of July will cause parents to go into nervous convulsions.

Fireworks on the SIXTH OF JULY is litigation-worthy.

6. In your twin-bed bedrooms, don’t have walls that beds can’t be pushed all the way against. Children adore to fall between these beds and walls, creating quite impressive middle-of-the-night injuries.

7. Put fiberglass up behind your railings. No matter how up-to-code they are, they never feel safe, as little people are notoriously creative and slippery.

8. If you and your spouse choose to sleep on opposite ends of the bed and therefore greatly deform your mattresses, don’t opt to place your old mattress with a gigantic mattress-sandbar down the middle into your rental property. Your guests might be nighttime cuddlers. And it is very uncomfortable to attempt to cuddle while falling off of the side of a mattress sandbar, which therefore multiplies the accordion disquietude.

9. Put electrical outlets in your closets. Little people that sleep there need noisemakers so that they do not hear the accordions.

10. If you advertise that your kitchen is fully stocked, it is NOT unless you provide plastic cups. Allowing children to use Martini Glasses may not end well, especially since you most likely have tile floors, and they do adore the noise that the two combined can create.

Your immediate attention regarding these items is greatly appreciated.

Two Princes.

July 12, 2012July 12, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, It's Tough Being a Girl, Weird Strange and True

Ali’s Godmother is one of my best friends, Amanda.

Amanda is 32, and Ali loves her dearly.

…But Ali is concerned with her complete lack of Godfather, so she is quite impatient for Amanda to find her Prince.

As such, she petitioned Amanda.

“Maybe you could try kissing a frog?”

Amanda answered quickly … nay, rashly.

“I absolutely would kiss a frog!!”

“REALLY?!?!”

“Yes. If you catch a frog, I’ll kiss it.”

I looked at Amanda skeptically.

“You know that Ali doesn’t forget anything, right?”

She shrugged, oddly indifferently, and told me her reasoning.

Amanda has a friend named Janet. Janet also made it to her 30’s without finding a Prince, so she agreed to kiss a frog.

She kissed a frog on a particularly fateful afternoon, and that very night, she met her husband, to whom she has now been happily married for many years.

Therefore, Amanda was willing to try this experiment – in theory, anyway.

But we have a bunny neighborhood, not a froggy one. So I told Ali that she was going to have to find her frog elsewhere – perhaps out in the country at Gramamma’s house.

The very next time Ali went out to my parent’s house, she informed Gramamma that she needed a frog. And she needed a frog now – “Because My Amanda said she would kiss it to find her Prince!!”

Unfortunately, Gramamma forgot to help Ali catch one.

A few months went by, with occasional reminders from Ali to Gramamma regarding her intense need for a frog.

Finally, my Mom remembered. She and Dad were coming to our house anyway, and she happened to run across a frog before they left.

(Well, really a toad.)

(Hopefully they have equal magical qualities.)

She shoved the FrogToad into a cage that she just happened to have lying around, and she and Dad set off for our house.

A few minutes into the drive, she noticed FrogToad hopping around the floorboard.

“Oh! Vic! The Frog got away!”

hop hop hop

“Well catch it!!!!”

FrogToad hopped over to Dad’s feet in the driver’s floorboard.

Mom laughed.

“I kinda hope he goes up your pants leg.”

“What? Catch the frog, Sara!!”

Finally, Mom caught FrogToad, and went to quickly put him in the cage.

…which, confusingly enough, FrogToad was still occupying.

Because only MY Mom would have a FrogToad randomly hop into her car on the same trip in which she was delivering an identical FrogToad to a grandchild.

Which is how we ended up with The Two Princes.

…who seemed to be fairly fond of each other.

So.

We’re given the gift of two FrogToads on the hottest day of the hottest week of the year, with strict instructions from my Mom to give them plenty of water, and oh – be sure and catch some bugs for their dinner.

I texted a picture to Amanda.

“Your Princes await. And so does Ali.”

She promised to come by the next afternoon, and I began the nervous waiting.

How am I going to keep these FrogToads from dying before she gets here?

What if they have a heat stroke overnight? It’s going to be that hot all night long.

I attempted to catch bugs, but failed miserably. I did manage to get one moth in there, but the FrogToads made it very clear that their palates did not allow for the consumption of moths.

The next morning, I texted Amanda again.

“Your Princes are looking hungry!!”

I watered them several times. I worried about their mental heath as they sat maniacally by the cage door.

Noah, when given the opportunity, would pick up the cage, hold it sideways, and shake it, watching them with fascination and a bit of terror.

This could not be good for their well-being. And no FrogToad is going to offer any magic if they’ve been mistreated beforehand. It’s just the facts of life.

Finally, Amanda arrived.

Noah excitedly gave her The Princes.

Amanda retrieved a FrogToad, who immediately started attempting an escape.

She wrangled him in true Cowgirl fashion.

Then began to actually think about what she’d agreed to do.

Was this worth it?

Yes.

Yes it was.

The second photo of the kiss DID seem to eerily catch some magic taking place…

When Amanda finally ripped her lips away from his, she most likely wondered if the fact that she let me photograph her lip to lip with an amphibian would help or hurt her search for a man.

But the Prince seemed happy. Before the kiss, it was all about the escape attempts. After the kiss, he was completely calm.

Perhaps even a bit arrogant.

Apparently, he’d been waiting a long time for that.

Epilogue:

After both FrogToads had hopped away, Ali removed herself from behind the swing at the other end of the porch where she had been hiding for the entire kiss scene. The FrogToads are now happily living in freedom under our porch, hopefully with a palate that does allow for the consumption of mosquitoes.

Amanda is awaiting the arrival of her Prince – we expect him any day now. She even went to Lowe’s three times the next weekend, but left with zero leads. If you know of his location, please feel free to send it our way as soon as possible.