Rachel Callahan

An Inconvenient Gap of Truth.

July 10, 2012July 21, 2020 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Denim Drama, Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Pop Post, Popular Posts

Nearly every denim makeover I’ve done ends with the same conversation.

“I had no idea what a difference it would make – I thought I was safe with Gap jeans!”

Or,

“Oh my goodness why didn’t anyone tell me I was wearing Mom Jeans?? I thought that as long as I was shopping at Old Navy, I was fine!!”

Gap and Old Navy denim. A subject that I’ve long struggled over whether to address publicly or not. I’ve revealed the truth about them one-on-one for quite a while, but have feared the backlash of addressing it here.

I know it’s hard to swallow, because we’ve all worn them at one time or another.

But I must say it, because I am committed to being honest with you in all matters of denim.

So read it fast – like ripping off a band-aid.

Ready?

Gap and Old Navy sell Gateway Mom Jeans.

There. It’s out there now, so let’s look at why.

I embarked on a reconnaissance mission to both stores accompanied by my dedicated husband/photographer, where I tried on every style of denim available. I’ve gone through and analyzed the evidence collected, then matched them up with comparables in other brands.

But first, a few disclaimers:

1. Jeans can fit vastly differently depending on the body. What may look awful on me could look good on you. My points below are not blanket statements, just strong suggestions.

2. We tried to match camera angles as well as possible, but seeing as how we were on an intensely covert operation and there was an especially nosy associate working the dressing room during our mission, not everything could be perfected as we wished.

3. Some people buy Gap and Old Navy because they are inexpensive. Almost all of the jeans pictured can be attained for about the same price as a pair of Gap jeans. (My current favorite way to get designer jeans at half off or more is through Nordstrom Rack or their app, HauteLook.) Good fit does not have to be expensive.

Let’s start with Gap.

1. The first style I tried on was called Real Straight.

These jeans, on the surface, do not qualify for the number one definition of Mom Jeans: pockets ending before the lower curvature of the butt.

However, they do have some concerning areas that clearly qualify them as Gateway Mom Jeans. Specifically, they make an unattractive inverted heart betwixt the cheeks, and the pockets are SO DANG GIGANTIC that they could hold a small Llama.

Perhaps on their own, it’s not clear enough. For comparison, here they are as compared to an Antik straight leg:

Yes, that is the same butt. No, I didn’t starve myself between the two photos.

2. Next I tried on Gap’s Always Skinny.

Again, these aren’t terrible. But they’re not great. They give me an extremely wideset rear view, and repeat the Kangaroo Pouch Pockets.

Notice the width shrinkage when compared to a well-shaped pair of skinny jeans bought from a neighboring mall store:

You can see how the smaller pocket, in this case, gives the curve and lift to offer pep and life, rather than a flat, weighed down look. Also, specifically on a skinny jean, the smaller pocket helps lessen the inverted triangle issue by separating the butt from the thigh.

(You might remember that we discussed the flattering qualities of large pockets in a prior post. While this is true, when the pockets are disproportionately dinasauric, the effect is not nearly so ideal.)

3. The next pair I tried on was the Gap Original Fit.

Clearly, these are horrifying. Especially note how the pockets are so wide-set that it gives me a third butt cheek, and the tapered yet loose leg is classic Mom Jean.

Also? No one should EVER need a zipper THAT LONG.

If you desire something classic yet modern and flattering forgoodnesssake, by all means go with a nice, conservative 7 For All Mankind.

4. Let’s move on. Quickly. To Gap Perfect Boot.

I found these to be the least offensive. However, the pockets were still too wide-set and oversized, once again offering the appearance of a supersized caboose. Notice the immediate shrinking sensation when compared to a pair of Hudson Bootcut:

5. Next: the Gap Curvy Fit.

Oddly enough, the Curvy Fit seemed to take away all of my curves and conglomerate them into a giant pile of lumpishness.

If you have curves and need room for them to move and breathe, Miss Chic or LA Idol are awesome options with quite a bit more visual interest and flattering fit:

6. My next fitting was in Gap Long and Lean.

This pair was the only pair that qualified beyond Gateway and straight into Mom Jeans – at least on me, as the pockets ended significantly before the lower curvature of my butt:

However, one of my best friends wears Gap Long and Lean, and I’ve always been puzzled as to how they look so great on her – especially since we even wear the same size. So, in fairness, I present to you evidence that Gap jeans can look right on the exact right body:

Let me assure you, though – I have counseled many former Gap wearers, and the friend pictured above is the exception, not the rule.

So if you don’t have that rare Gap-flattered body and you want to look Long and Lean, might I suggest Rock and Republic – notice the immediate leg-lengthening effect:

7. The last Gap style that I found was highly ironically named…the Sexy Boyfriend.

OH NO THEY DIDN’T.

I SO wish I could have found these in my size to try on.

Pleats.

Darts.

Flap Inner-Only Pockets.

TAPERED. LEG.

Have you ever seen any man under 70 wearing jeans like this, let alone a sexy boyfriend??

I shudder to think.

But I did find one last treasure before I left Gap…

8. The Gap Denim Romper.

Yes. I was ashamed.

(And my cameraman didn’t like my visible bra strap.)

Just in case you missed it, the back waist actually qualifies this outfit as… Grandma Jeans.

I apologize to your retinas.

I rushed out of Gap and headed to Old Navy.

Which was somewhat akin to jumping out of the frying pan and into the nuclear incinerator.

I tried on every style that they had in both bootcut and skinny, but neither leg choice was better than the other. So, to summarize, here are all three of their major styles in bootcut.

The Diva was the least offensive, but still lacked style or a flattering cut.

The Dreamer copied Gap’s main problem of wide-set pockets and triple butt.

And the Sweetheart was unapologetically a hardcore Mom Jean.

Just in case you needed a healthy comparison, I offer them against 7 For All Mankind:

Lest you think that I have somehow doctored my photos (which I have not) or that this information is only applicable to my body type, here are a few examples of others who have been freed from the noose of Gateway Mom Jeans:

Subject A, a close friend who had no idea how flattering and comfortable great jeans could be:

Subject B, a blog reader and mom of four kids:

And Subject C, a new Mom and blog reader from the other side of the country who got a long-distance makeover via the following before-and-after butt-texts:

(Yes, I get butt-texts quite often, usually accompanied with the question, “Are these Mom Jeans?” If you need to butt-text me, just let me know and I’ll give you my number.)

After Subject C bought her jeans, she sent me a couple more full-length before and after photos (with an adorable baby leg included as a bonus):

But.

Even if you look great in Gap jeans – even if they fit you perfectly, the pockets are proportionately correct, and the style was made for your body type, here is my biggest argument against Gap and Old Navy Jeans:

They stretch out.

Ferociously.

Unforgivingly.

Ridiculously.

So even if they don’t look like Mom Jeans when you put them on, they will before the next episode of Dora the Explorer is over.

Looking for the rest of my denim posts? Here’s a list:

If you’re afraid you might have Long Butt, click here.
If you’re plus-sized, click here.
If you’re over 50 years old, click here.
If you want more specific tips and tricks to pick out the perfect jeans, click here.
If you want a list of every post I’ve ever written about denim, click here.

Other Posts That Might Interest You…

Collaborative Vacationing.

July 9, 2012July 8, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Every Now and Then I Can Be Sappy Too., I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Kids: The Experience., The Blissfulness of Life, Yes I'm a beach bum. What of it?

(Also known as “The One Where I Force You To Look at All My Vacation Photos.”)

(You’re welcome.)

It all started in 2008, as a grand experiment in co-vacationing with another family, our friends David and Ashley.

We each had a baby – Ali was 18 months, and AJ was 21 months. And they were quite conveniently the best of friends, besides being confusingly identical and therefore nearly interchangeable.

It went so well that we tried again in 2010. Our girls had grown into mature 3 1/2 year olds, and were still the best of friends.

On that trip, we realized that vacationing with kids and without multiple adults just wasn’t worthwhile. So last week, we kept our bi-annual tradition alive. This time, with our 5 1/2 year olds that, after looking at the photos above, feel like tweens.

I’m not the ooey-gooey sentimental type, but looking at those pictures very nearly makes me want to type some cliché sentiment about the passage of time. But it does not, however, make me want to stoop so low as to tell you to be sure and “Enjoy every minute of it!!!”

(Shiver.)

But back to the passage of time.

In 2008, there were no siblings.

In 2010, AJ’s sister Tessa was a mere one year old.

And in 2012, our combined brood seems nearly innumerable.

…Or four. Which is basically the same thing.

Noah was quite honored to join the vacationing club as the only mini male,

even though he struggled to keep up with those who had longer legs,

and his Fear Gene picked a really rotten time to grow in.

But fear leads to cuddling, and who would complain about that?

I tried to help his courage with a sunblock-powered makeover,

but his hair refuses to stay in any formation but straight-laced, and he much preferred playing cars on the pool deck to any risky water behavior anyway.

The three older kids found the 30 second ride to the pool (we stayed at The Wharf, which, as an aside, has an amazing pool/lazy river/wave pool/kiddy heaven attached to it) to be absolutely utopian, because they got to illegally ride in the back of the car.

(Try doing that in the back of a truck all the way to Iowa. I bet you wouldn’t be so enthralled.)

The slides were the perfect amount of thrill and safety,

As was the on-site Ferris Wheel.

It rained the majority of one day. Fortunately, Chris had the foresight to bring the Wii… and four remotes, even though most of the games only allowed for two players.

But it’s really just the belief that you’re playing that counts.

The pool was so great that we avoided the beach for a couple of days, but when we finally went, we realized our grave mistake.

The beach was actually way easier.

Because the pool was TOO exciting. They constantly wanted to go to the wave pool then the lazy river then the slides then the wave pool then the bathroom then the wave pool and … we were exhausted.

Whereas the beach was the beach. They could play with sand,

or float in the water.

Catch hermit crabs,

or tend to our crab prison colony.

But all of their opportunities were in one place, so we got to be lazier.

(Because really, that’s the goal of all vacations – finding a way to be lazy in spite of the myriads of little people under one’s care.)

Speaking of laziness, I was the fortunate one who had to stay behind every afternoon while Noah napped.

This quiet sequestering – I did not mind it one bit.

During one of those afternoons, everyone else joined Kitty and Leo for a boat ride.

AJ drove conscientiously and responsibly,

Tessa drove like a mad woman determined to hit the only other boat in the bay,

And Ali skipped driving to stand in the front of the boat and work on her Queen of the World pose.

She also was super excited to take a ride on The Little Boat with Chris. This is a far cry from previous attempts, but Daddy was overjoyed when Ali asked to go fast and hit The Wiggly Waves.

Perhaps her tastes have evolved due to recent Daddy dates spent in other fast things made for two. Hmmm…

Thankfully, all of this hard play paid off for us adults, as we tucked the children in before nightfall and were left to our own devices every evening to watch the beautiful sunsets,

and moonrises.

Before our trip, one of David’s coworkers asked him where he was going.

“We’re going on vacation.”

“Oh! Where are you going?”

“We’re going to the beach with another family.”

“OOOH – so you’re taking the kids with you. That’s not called a vacation – that’s just called a trip.”

And they had a point. Vacationing with completely dependent miniature humans can be exhausting.

(Don’t mind Flynn Rider and Barbie making out on the couch. It happens to the best of us.)

But even the kids have their moments of reflection,

serenity,

and downright adorability,

that very nearly makes it all worth it.

Okay, okay, it DOES make it all worth it.

…except for the ride home.

At which point we desperately texted our babysitter and pleaded for her to meet us at home as soon as possible so that we could escape the clutches of our tiny whiny humans.

Parenting and the Art of SpellTalk.

July 6, 2012June 30, 2012 Rachel Callahan Deception: A Parent's Best Friend, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

Originally Posted March 7, 2010.

SpellTalk (n): A language that parents use to hide the most important parts of conversations from their kids. Unfortunately, kids eventually learn this language so that they can spy on their parents, so parents must find a new and original way to secretively communicate.

When do you use SpellTalk?

1. When you’re talking about something fun that is potentially in your child’s future and are not quite ready to answer five thousand six hundred and seventy five questions of “Is it time to go to the Zoo yet?!?!”.

Example of the use of SpellTalk in this capacity: “Ali is going to go visit G-R-A-M-A-M-M-A and P-O-P.”

2. When you want to hide your emotions.

Me: “I’m so D-E-P-R-E-S-S-E-D today.”

Chris: “It’s not like she knows what depressed means, dear.”

3. When you want to call each other names.

Chris: (Makes silly joke)

Me: (laughs), “You’re such an I-D-I-O-T.”

Chris: “Well, you’re a D-O-R-K-Y S-P-E-L-L-E-R.”

4. When you want to keep your chocolate all to yourself.

…because you know that you don’t ALWAYS want to share all of your sweets.

However, this can sometimes be more complex than you expect.

Chris: “I got us some more letter-after-O letter-after-O’s for after someone goes to bed!”

(pause).

Me: “P?? You got some pee pee???”

(Thoughtful pause).

Chris: “Okay. I got some letter-after-L letter-after-L’s.”

Oooooh. M & M’s.

(That story was from our early days of spell talk. Thank goodness we’ve gotten more proficient with the language since then.)

Complications to SpellTalk:

Sometimes the items that you need to talk about are not cloakably spellable.Example: The fact that Ali’s best friend’s name is AJ. Not exactly easy to spell subtly.Soluction: When we talk about AJ in SpellTalk, we use a code term – her first name, A-U-D-R-E-Y.Because we’re smart like that.
When words have two meanings. Yesterday, the following SpellTalk conversation occurred when Chris and I were trying to decide where we could park our car to have a bike ride:Chris: “We could park at the P-A-R-K…”

Me: “You realize that you just said “park” AND spelled “park” in the same sentence?”

Ali: so intently studying her breakfast that she never heard any of the mentions of the park.

(which proves that sometimes spell talk isn’t as necessary as you think it is.)

It is hard to remember to use your second language of SpellTalk when something happens fast, like needing to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a car. It takes a lot of practice to remember to say “Oh C-R-A-P!!!!”
You must become proficient at picking the CRUCIAL word(s) to convert to SpellTalk in any particular sentence. Chris finds this especially complicated at times, which results in some funny sentences such as:Chris: “I think we should go to the Zoo today after B-R-E-A-K-F-A-S-T!”Me: “Um, dear…I don’t think you needed to spell Breakfast.”Chris: “I know, but you know what I mean.”

What to do when your child learns SpellTalk:

I have no idea. The thought scares me to death. Learn Finnish or Swahili maybe?

Okay – so two years later, we are now at the point where Ali is figuring out all of our secrets.

WHAT NOW?!?!?

Would You Like That Deep-Fried or Dried?

July 5, 2012July 3, 2012 Rachel Callahan Can I get a copy of that recipe?, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, It's Tough Being a Girl, Weird Strange and True

Originally posted September 23, 2010.

Birth, although an amazingly beautiful and miraculous occasion, is, let’s face it, also pretty fantastically disgusting.

You’ve got blood and guts and possibly poo and definitely puke and meconium and blood and guts and…Placenta.

There’s just nothing pretty about placenta.

(I would normally insert a picture of a placenta in all it’s glory right here, but the picture almost made me gag, which guarantees, apparently, that most of you would SURELY gag. So if you really want to see the loveliness of a Placenta, check it out here.)

I mean, it’s pretty cool and all that when we’re pregnant we actually grow an extra ORGAN that supports and nourishes our baby, but when it decides to come OUT, it’s not a pretty sight.

I had a C-Section with Ali, which I let Chris watch in entirety and am now kinda jealous that he’s seen more of me than I have. And, since I was quite curious about the whole thing (I really should have watched – maybe next time), he described, in great detail, the Placenta-Removal-Process for me.

After they removed Ali and cut the umbilical cord, they then tugged like a leash on the still-attached-to-my-Placenta end of the cord – tug, tug, tug, and out popped the Placenta, dangling on the end of it, looking very much like they’d just removed my still-living heart, Indiana-Jones-Temple-of-Doom-style.

Despite watching them slice me open, cauterize (aka burn) me, pound on my belly to get the Ali to come out and play, and reach into my abdomen up to their elbows, I’m pretty sure that that the placenta removal was the most disturbing part of the entire process for Chris.

…which makes me wonder what he would have said if I had requested, at that moment, for him to save it so that I could….eat it.

Because, yes, people do.

After all, most animals eat their placentas – why shouldn’t we?

(For the same reason we shouldn’t greet one another by sniffing each other’s butts, but that’s just my opinion.)

According to some, eating one’s own placenta after birth provides great nutritional value, and can also help with post-partum depression and lactation.

I personally think also it would greatly help with losing all of my baby weight, because if I managed to choke down my Placenta, I don’t think I’d ever be able to brush my teeth, tongue, roof, palette, and throat hard enough, OR with enough bleach, to feel like my mouth was sanitary enough to hold food ever again.

But, there are plenty of recipes for Placental Cuisine.

The most humane way to eat one’s own organ (and almost palatable in thought) is to have it cooked, dehydrated (think placenta-jerky, or placenta roll-ups), then ground into powder and inserted into capsules.

I might could manage to swallow a pill of my own guts.

Other options include Placenta Meatloaf, Placenta and Onions, and I’m sure someone out there has made Placenta Brownies.

But really, if you’re going to eat yourself for nutritional benefits, it seems like you might as well get all the nutrients possible, without letting any get cooked, dried, or processed out.

Which is why there are an abundance of recipes for Placenta Tartare.

According to Tom Cruise, who is apparently an expert on Placental Culinary Arts (which makes me wonder how many and whose Placentas he’s been snacking on), Placenta Tartare is best prepared by combining one pound of freshly ground placenta, one teaspoon of brown mustard, one-half teaspoon of Tabasco sauce, one teaspoon each of Worcestershire sauce and brandy, one egg, a pinch of salt, and ground white pepper.

And, it’s delicious on crackers or toast, and when paired with a nice merlot.

Or, more realistically, after you’ve had so much crack that you think “Placenta” is another word for “Filet Mignon”.

But, since Noah’s most likely going to be born the week of Christmas, at least now I know how we can save some money on Christmas dinner…after all, who needs a Honey Baked Ham when you can have fresh Placenta?

Don’t worry – I’ll be sure to serve it up with a gourmet side of breast-milk cheese.

That’s Because Daddies Fix Everything.

July 3, 2012July 2, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Toddlers: The Experience

Hi! I hope that you’re not even reading my blog right now because you’re relaxing so deeply at the pool or beach.

I’m still in syndication here, but if you want to read something completely new, I’ve recently guest-blogged a couple of times for my friend Wade at Birmingham Blogging. They’re pretty geektastic, so read at your own risk. But if you’re a blogger, they’re full of blogging/Pinterest information, so here are the links: How to Create Graphics to Help Your Posts on Pinterest, and Three Hacks to Track Your Site’s Pinterest Stats.

But for here, today, I found this post that I didn’t even remember happening. Given my recent post about not blogging Ali stories as much, it was a particularly fun find.

Originally posted February 18, 2010.

We all know that Mommies get no privacy. And this lack of privacy leads to…perplexing conversations.

I was getting dressed, as usual accompanied by my three-year-old sidekick.

When I finished, Ali calmly informed me,

“I think your chest is broken.”

“What??!!”

“Your chest – it’s broken.”

“Where is it broken?”

She reaches up, pats me right where I feared she would, and says, “That…that is broken.”

“How is it broken?”

“Because…” …she moves onto other things, and I’m left wondering how I managed to break my chest.

A few minutes later, I sit down to help her get dressed. She leans over me, pulls my shirt open, peers down inside and says, “Yup, it’s broken.”

“Well how do I get it fixed, then?”

“That’s because Daddy fixes it.”

“How does Daddy fix it?”

“That’s because he works it.”

“He WORKS IT? How does he work it?”

“That’s because he’s happy.”

And I…am still left speechless.

Scoff, All Ye Northerners.

July 2, 2012July 13, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Weird Strange and True

I decided to take the week off since the entire world is on vacation anyway. I mean, when the 4th falls on a Wednesday, the lucky people are gone the first half of the week, the luckier people are gone the second half of the week, and the luckiest people are gone all week. So what’s the point in posting? Right?

(If you’re still here, I apologize deeply and profoundly for your apparent lack of luck.)

So instead, I’m sharing a few posts from my archives for the week.

I chose this first post because it felt especially cozy since it has been over 100 degrees continuously for the past week.

Originally Published February 4, 2011.

I drove in my first snow storm yesterday.

Yes!! It was a snow storm!! As in, snow was blowing from the skies!! And some of it was even sticking to the ground!

And the more bizarre part was, it was TOTALLY unexpected. Which, I thought, was impossible in Alabama.

You see, when there’s even a one percent chance of snow in these parts, there’s usually massive news coverage, minute-to-minute updates on what the blessed accumulation might possibly be, school closings before the event is even a sure possibility, and, of course, ridiculously manic grocery store raids, JUST in case the apocalypse is upon us.

But for some reason, this event tip-toed right past all of our beloved Meteorologists.

I had one errand to run, and lunch planned with a friend – a simple day, for sure. As we left the house, there were a few raindrops, and then the SOUNDS of raindrops, but nothing was on my windshield.

It greatly confused this Southerner.

After puzzling over the invisible raindrops, I realized that it was QUITE cold outside (I’d left from the garage), and that the sound I was hearing was actually sleet.

…at which point I felt extraordinarily guilty about getting my six-week-old baby out in SLEET – especially since my errand was going to require a bit of outside walking.

(Feel free to award me “Parent of the Year” at any moment.)

We made it through our errand without anyone turning blue from our Antartica-Like-34-degree-weather, and then headed to lunch.

When we arrived at lunch, the sleet was picking up a bit, and my guilt intensified as I ran inside, trying to keep the certainly-dangerous sleet off my baby.

And then, as we ate, it began to snow!

SNOW?? It was 65 degrees two days ago!!

HUGE snowflakes!

And then, a blizzard!

I was hypnotized by the lovely snow falling aswe ate, and then all of a sudden I woke up to reality – I was about to be snowed in at a place that would most certainly make me gain 20 pounds in the two days – HUGE snow drifts were beginning to pile up all around the parking lot!!

(That’s what snow drifts look like, right?)

So we quickly decided that we should end our lunch and attempt to sled home before our cars disappeared under the snow – which obviously would be happening at any moment.

So we carefully ran out to our cars, me trying to keep the snow out of Noah’s car seat, all while not letting Ali get buried in a drift.

When we got to the car, Noah was seriously unhappy with my horrible parenting and for risking his life in a blizzard. And I couldn’t blame him – look at the thick blanket of snow on his car seat!!

I strapped my children-that-now-looked-like-snowmen in the car, and headed up to my seat….to find…

My windshield! How was I ever going to dig out of this mess without a snow blower??

…imagine my surprise when my windshield wipers did the trick.

(They must have been industrial strength.)

We began our arduous trek home, which included a HILL.

And, for the first time ever, I had to drive on a hilly road covered in ice.

(“covered” might not be exactly the right word, but it definitely existed, at any rate…)

And you know what? It was slippery!

As I slid off the edges of the road repeatedly, I began having a middle-child moment and thinking about all of those ice-driving-training lessons that my Dad gave my older brother, but was too terrified of my female-teenage-driving skills to give me.

(In fact, he just “happened” to be in Mexico when I got my learner’s permit. My Mom still says that was the most stressful week of her life, and the most dangerous week of every mailbox in Birmingham’s life.)

(And anyway, as if driving on the mountain roads in Mexico could be less stressful than riding with your inexperienced 15 year old daughter…although according to Mom, her week was worse.)

And then I woke up from my daydream.

Noah was still angry and screaming his displeasure, Ali wasn’t too happy that Noah was filling the back seat with cacophony, and I was slipping all over the roads.

…then, as I was a block from home, the winter storm let up, the sun ALMOST came out, and the roads began to magically clear up.

And I realized that I had picked THE worst 15 minutes of the entire day to try to drive. Because my timing is impeccable like that.

There? Don’t you feel cooler now? You’re welcome!

Mediawkward.

June 30, 2012August 8, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Storytime, Weird Strange and True

Once upon a time, I got an email from a PR company inviting me to a media dinner at a new restaurant in town.

Media dinners are typically fun events, where restaurants feed bloggers and journalists the best of their offerings and hope that they feel the passion to spread the word about their great food and unique atmosphere. I like sharing about my favorite restaurants on Alabama Bloggers, so I try to attend these when I can.

And it said that I could bring a guest – even better.

I forwarded it to Chris, told him we were going to dinner in a few weeks, and moved on with life.

Somewhere between the two dates, we realized that we were using up all of our childcare options for other things, so he opted to stay with the kids, and I invited another blogger friend to go with me.

A couple of hours before the meal, she came down with a relapse of The Dreaded Rhinovirus (read: a cold) and backed out on me.

(I love her anyway.)

So I arrived alone at the restaurant 15 minutes early. And noted that they were quite crowded.

Strange…usually these type of dinners were private events.

There was one journalistic-looking girl standing outside and looking a bit confused and desperate to recognize another of her sort.

I made welcoming eye contact a couple of times as I walked in, but she never reached out to me, so I let it go.

I walked up, and a hostessish girl handed me a menu and welcomed me. I told her that I was there for the media dinner – where should I go?

“Hm… I don’t know about that party. Did you guys have reservations?”

“Well, you invited us, so…”

“Let me go ask my manager.”

She left…then she came back a minute later, alone.

“Hey! So My manager doesn’t know anything about this group. Are you sure you made reservations?”

Awkward.

“No. I didn’t make reservations. I wasn’t planning on coming here tonight – it was your restaurant who invited me. It was supposed to be a media dinner?”

“Oh. That’s what that other girl out there said, too. Strange. I’ll go GET my manager.”

She left again…and she came back with a harried manager.

“Hi! I just got back in town today and I have no idea what is going on. What group did you say you were with?”

“I’m not with a group, per say. I got an email from your PR company or parent company or someone official, and they invited me to dinner to try out your new restaurant.”

“How many people were invited to this dinner?”

“I really have no idea. I just got my copy of the email.”

“No one has told me anything about this. Do you know the person’s name that invited you?”

I felt shifty as she clearly didn’t believe my story.

“No – I got the email weeks ago…I’ll see if I can find it.”

“That would be great.”

She ran off to try and track down our mystery inviter while I searched my email inbox to no avail – “weeks” in my email inbox is at least two and a half millennia in real time. Hostessish girl went and got the other journalist standing in the 102 degree heat and told her that she had a fellow liar cohort inside.

I started talking to the other journalist. Turns out, she was an intern at a local magazine, and was, I believe, quite stressed out about the fact that she’d been the first to break this embarrassing news to the restaurant.

The manager came back, looking no more informed than she had before.

“Have you found the email yet?”

My feelings of awkwardness continued to rise.

“No. But I texted another blogger I know is coming. She gave me the name of the woman who invited us, and should be forwarding me the email.”

“Okay..let me know when you get it.”

She ran off again.

The email came in, so I told the Hostessish girl, who was still standing around.

“Okay – I’ll go get my manager.”

Harried manager came back.

I held out my phone to her, feeling as if I finally had proof of my legitimacy and desperately hoped that this would vindicate me and my intrusive presence.

“What? This company doesn’t even own us anymore!! They sold us.”

“Um… I’m sorry.”

“Can you email that to me? I need to be able to have a record of it.”

“Uh…sure. What’s your email address?”

She ran back to her computer. A few minutes later, she came back. Looking downright frightened.

“We aren’t…um…are we supposed to be… we’re not…paying for your dinner, are we?”

At this point, I was ready to melt through the floor with embarrassment for myself and for her.

…and was more than a bit concerned over how much she sounded like my dinner would be coming directly out of her paycheck.

“Well…it’s a media dinner…they invited us…that’s usually…the way it works.”

“I see. Um, okay. I’ll be back.”

I spotted a local Magazine editor that I know walking in from the parking lot. Thank GOODNESS. She was with another lady that looked familiar, so I assumed that they work together.

As soon as they got in, I felt it only right to clue them in on the developing situation. “Okay ladies, there’s some awkward stuff going on here.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“This is a total media fail. They have no idea why we’re here. And are quite stressed about it.”

The slightly familiar girl looked horrified. “Oh no!! I work for the PR company that put this on!! What in the world happened??? I am SO sorry.”

…at which point I realized what it actually felt like to want to melt through the floor – that first time was nothing.

(Mental Note: Always let people introduce themselves before explaining a failing situation.)

It turned out that she wasn’t in on the planning of the event, so I hadn’t just insulted her, or not exactly, anyway. She frantically got to work attempting to solve the situation, and the manager came around to tell us, in a very defeated voice, to “just order whatever you want.”

We stood there still awkwardly as our group began to grow and we felt the need to explain to the arriving bloggers and journalists what was happening.

After much more frantic texting and calling, the manager was finally able to track down that the event was supposed to have happened, but (clearly) there had been a breakdown in communication. But it was too late now.

We continued to stand around, waiting for some sort of direction.

The hostessish girl came back over. “Could you guys please all move outside? You’re crowding up the doorway.”

Well, that was a direction…

I looked outside at the waves of heat hitting the restaurant. I turned to the confused crowd with which I shared this Boat of Awkward. “Why don’t we just go ahead and order?”

I decided I’d be the first to go through the line.

Which meant that I then had to solve the issue of there being nowhere for a group of our size to sit.

Then again, since there was clearly going to be no media presentation, we didn’t all have to sit together. We were simply in dinner-survival mode at that point – long gone were the feelings of “Oh! Let’s check out this fun new restaurant!” So I found a small table, invited a few other wandering media to join me, ate my food, and vowed to never trust the legitimacy of email ever again.

So, if you ever go to this unnamed restaurant, you’ll know the one I’m talking about. Because you’re likely to get the following response at the door..

“Um, hello. Are we open today?”

“Yes, that’s what the sign on the door says…”

“Are you a…. customer??”

Because they won’t be expecting you.

How It Feels to be Hated By a Celebrity.

June 29, 2012July 21, 2020 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Blog Geek, Just My Luck, Pop Post, Popular Posts

Wednesday night on Twitter, I broke my silence about this deeply painful issue when I told my friend Trina all about my shame and sorrow. So I decided that since it was already out there, I might as well admit it here.

I’ve been blocked on Twitter by Travel Channel star Adam Richman.

Meaning that I can’t follow him, I can’t message him, and I can’t even mention his Twitter Handle in a tweet.

It’s distressing.

Humiliating.

Horrifying.

So one must ask, how did it come to this?

First, I’ll explain how I came to realize I’d been blocked, because it’s not as if Twitter sends you a weekly update of all of the people who have chosen to despise you. These things must be found out the hard way.

Last year, I wrote a blog post called Baby V. Food. I was pretty darn proud of our creation – it was Chris’ idea, and his ideas always turn into the best posts.

Chris and I committed fully to the post, and went to a lot of trouble to get it perfect.

We watched Man V. Food several times (which is mighty sacrificial for me, as I’m not a fan of watching other people eat to the brink of vomiting) and took copious notes, writing down all of Adam Richman’s idiosyncrasies, catchphrases, scene set-ups, and even facial expressions. I took hundreds of photos of Noah, and I did a bang-up Photoshop job on the title, not to mention the microphones at the end.

When I went to tweet about my post, I mentioned Adam’s Twitter handle in my tweet so that he might see it – I mean surely he would appreciate such a finely crafted parody of his show, even if he couldn’t appreciate the Cute Baby Factor. Right?

So I typed out my tweet.

New Post! Noah vies for @AdamRichman’s job in Baby V. Food! http://www.graspingforobjectivity.com/2011/08/baby-v-food.html

But the tweet wouldn’t send.

I tried again – no luck.

I checked my character count – it was under 140.

Odd…

So I went to Adam’s Twitter page – it showed that I wasn’t following him. That shouldn’t cause my problem, but I clicked follow just to see what would happen.

At which time Twitter sent me this shocking note:

Adam Richman is…. BLOCKING ME???

Me. Me. ME?!?!?

What did I ever do to him??

I sat there, stunned and perplexed, wondering to myself how I’d managed to offend a man that could easily eat me without even unlatching his Manaconda hinged jaw.

And then I remembered.

A year or two before, I had tweeted a one-liner joke about him. I don’t even remember it, but I do remember that I did not include his Twitter Handle in the joke. I’d just said “Adam Richman”.

However, he apparently has quite the gaggle of adoring groupies who find men that regularly eat five pounds of greasy food in under thirty minutes quite hot. These devoted ladies also have Twitter searches set up so that they can know every single time his name is mentioned in the Twitterverse.

They didn’t appreciate my joke.

They immediately started attacking me, throwing nasty tweets faster than Adam can gulp down a 96-ounce Cheddar Cheese Milkshake. And in their TweetGrenades, they made sure to include his Twitter handle – you know, because a man loves a woman who is a Twitter Tattletale.

I didn’t respond to them, but I deleted my tweet.

Okay, I’ll admit it – I do remember the basic idea of my joke, although I’ve forgotten the punchline – a shame, because I think it was good. The joke was something along the lines of who would be the perfect replacement for Adam Richman when he had a heart attack.

So maybe I shouldn’t joke about someone having a heart attack. But have you SEEN the man eat???

IF YOU EAT YOURSELF TO THE FOOD SWEATS ON A REGULAR BASIS SIMPLY FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT OF THE TELEVISION-WATCHING MASSES, YOU CAN’T GET OFFENDED WHEN PEOPLE JOKE ABOUT YOUR HEALTH.

(At least that’s how I feel.)

So apparently, once all of his admirers began TweetBombing me but before I deleted it, he went back and read my tiny little tweet, and then decided I was such a despicable human being that I was worthy of being blocked.

When I put all of the pieces together of how this blocking came to be, I actually did feel pretty awful. I hate hurting anyone’s feelings, even a celebrity that makes my lifetime earnings by eating a pile of cheesy fries in the shape of Mount Vesuvius.

Then I sat in a puddle of moroseness and felt sorry for myself, thinking of the thousands of blog posts and ten thousand tweets that I’ve written and wondering how many hundreds of people that I had hurt or offended and had yet to discover it.

It totally ruined my post that had brought me such joy and pride.

Since that day, every time Chris has turned on Man V. Food, instead of making my former comments of…

“Ew. I’m eating – don’t turn that on or I’ll lose my appetite”

“I really don’t want to watch him distend his stomach AGAIN”,

I get quiet and sorrowful, reminded of my despicable tweet, and say meekly,

“He hates me. I don’t like watching this show. It reminds me of what a bad person I am.”

But after tweeting the short version of this story Wednesday night, I realized something.

Adam Richman is a big, burly, tough dude that puts himself on television eating monstrous amounts of food (or used to, anyway) and I am an infinitely-uncelebrity Mommy Blogger in Birmingham, Alabama who made one tiny 140 character joke. A joke ten times less insulting than anything that Leno, Letterman, or Conan has ever said about Mr. Richman – and they’ve all said plenty.

But I was apparently so offensive that he had to block me over it?

Somebody’s feeling mighty sensitive.

And now I want to know: has he blocked Leno, Letterman and Conan?

Oh – and don’t forget Jimmy Fallon.

Because if he hasn’t, I’m calling foul. I’ve been discriminated against.

MOMMY BLOGGERS ARE HUMAN, TOO!

WE DESERVE EQUALITY IN JOKE-MAKING RIGHTS!

(But please feel free to chime in and let me know that you don’t hate me. Until you do, I’ll be in a ball over there in the corner, worrying about every word I’ve ever typed.)

Photobooth.

June 28, 2012June 27, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Boy Child = Bizarre., Kids: The Experience., Toddlers: The Experience

My kids are four years apart.

That makes me fairly strange in my demographic, but I’m cool with it.

(I actually love it and think it is THE WAY TO GO, but don’t tell my friends I said that.)

I get to experience two completely different realms at once…especially in cognitive development.

Ali’s current mental state tends toward the deeper, metaphysical issues of life.

“Hey Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“When you pray to Jesus and ask him to help you not do something, do you have to go with that, or can you change it?”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, when you pray to Jesus and ask him to help you not do something, do you have to go with that, or can you change it?”

“Can you give me an example?”

“I just want you to tell me the answer.”

“Well, I don’t understand. I need you to explain what you mean.”

“Well, if you were in the car and wanted to pick up your lemonade and prayed that the top wouldn’t come off and make it spill…but then you changed your mind and didn’t want to pick up your lemonade after all. Could you not pick up your lemonade, or do you have to go with it since you asked Jesus to help you?”

I looked back at her in my rearview mirror. And at her as-yet-untouched lemonade in the cupholder.

“It’s fine, baby. You don’t have to pick up your lemonade. Jesus can save His supernatural cup stabilizing abilities for another day.”

…Whereas Noah is pondering on a bit of a lower level.

His new favorite word?

Poop.

But he doesn’t say it with the “oo” like zoo – it’s with the exact “oo” that Snooki puts in “poof”. Come to think of it, that same “oo” is in “Snooki”, as well.

(Or, for those who have miraculously managed to avoid hearing the word Snooki, imagine the “oo” in hoof.)

So now – say it in your head – ready? “Poop.”

When he toots, he says it.

“Poop!”

When he poops, he says it.

“Poop!”

When he strains to get onto the couch, he says it.

“Poop!”

When he hears anyone groan for any reason, he says it.

“Poop!”

And somehow, he’s put it all together, in his most impressive cognitive leap to date…

When he walks in on anyone in the bathroom, he runs over, puts his hands on their thighs, looks down into the bowl, and yells it.

“Poop!”

…because everyone needs a cheerleader.

Never Trust a Llama.

June 26, 2012June 26, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck

Two days after Noah recovered from Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease, he managed to come down with Croup.

Considering that we hadn’t been anywhere for what had to have been centuries due to his ailing condition, I have no idea how he got sick again.

But sick he was.

(He is completely better at this lovely moment. Here’s to hoping it lasts.)

As such, he was unfit for the nursery on Sunday, again. So while Ali was having the time of her life riding to Church in Daddy’s fancy car and – oh – stopping for Krispy Kreme on the way, I decided to give Noah the consolation prize of a one-on-one trip with Mommy to the zoo.

(I know. Germs. I promise that I kept him confined in his stroller almost the entire time, and when I freed him, I ensured that he stayed far, far away from other children.)

(What can I say – I needed out of the house.)

Plus, his current favorite activity (aside from GETTING SICK) is reading from his animal book and making all of their sounds, so I thought that I would get an outstanding quantity of baby brownie points for this activity.

But no.

Apparently, he greatly prefers the safety and appropriate social distance offered by two-dimensional animals.

He clung to me as we passed harmless sheep and tiny baby goats…and made sure to keep his grasp firmly on the stroller when we happened upon a loose Killer Rooster.

But I’ve always had a fascination with the Llama, so I made him get out of his stroller to meet Mister Double L.

My feelings for this Llama are quite undeserved, as he is the same Llama that ate Ali’s shirt four years ago, therefore instilling in her a long-standing fear for all things large and fuzzy.

Yet I am still magnetized to him with an inexplicable passion comprised of 50% hatred, 50% fascination.

So while Noah maintained a white-knuckled death-grip on my hair, I held him up to see the Llama.

The Llama ignored us and kept eating.

“See, Noah? The Llama is nice!”

I leaned far over the fence and petted the Llama’s back.

Llama grunted. Noah whined with fear while ripping chunks of hair out of my follicles.

I leaned and petted him again.

The Llama buried his head deeper in his hay, filling his cheeks with an enormous mouthful of straw.

He chewed it for a half a second, then calmly yet intentionally looked directly at me and simultaneously hocked, belched, and projectile vomited directly at my head.

Then indifferently looked down and went back to eating.

I stood there, careful not to open my mouth until I had assessed the damage and location of all Llama Sputum.

I sat the completely un-spat-upon Noah on the ground (Apparently our Llama has the aim and accuracy of a sniper) and reached into my hair, where my hand sank into a giant gooey conglomeration of saliva, Llama bile, and sharp bits of hay.

I panickingly dug around and found Noah’s wet wipes and began to furiously wash my hair.

Noah watched my vain efforts with a look that said it all.

After I removed the largest chunks, I set off to find the Purell.

Awesome. There just happened to have been a Purell thief right outside the Llama exhibit?!?

I glared at him suspiciously, knowing exactly who was hateful enough to steal disinfectant.

He munched away with a gleeful smile hidden under his long, innocent-looking Llama eyelashes.