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On Being a Hotel Resident.

June 10, 2015June 9, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life

We lived in the hotel from Saturday night until Wednesday night of last week. Although I was quite reticent at the idea of packing up and moving to a hotel room with my children on a minute’s notice during The Crisis, I must say that I got exceptionally accustomed to hotel living. In fact, on the last night we were there, I was kind of sad – I had really gotten attached to our little suite.

Then on Wednesday morning, I woke up to the kids arguing, and realized that they had enjoyed enough togetherness – the timing was right for everyone to have their own space again.

But the fantastic living there part. It was both minimalistic and maximalistic. (Why isn’t maximalistic a word? That should totally be a word.)

– It was minimalistic in that we had very few belongings with us, but maximalistic in that we had a full free breakfast every morning.

– It was minimalistic in that we had no DVR, so we relearned how to watch commercials, but maximalistic because those commercials fanned the flames of my daughter’s raging commercialism, and she created a constantly-growing list of As Seen on TV products that she wanted me to buy her.

(Who is Dr. Hart and why is he trying to sell Power Flossers to children? This seems wrought with disaster.)

– It was minimalistic because of the forced family togetherness created by two-room living, yet maximalistic because someone came and vacuumed up our crumbs – EVERY DAY.

– It was minimalistic to have a tiny refrigerator and no freezer, but maximalistic because there was a “free snack” machine on our floor, for which we had five credits each day. I ate a lot of Reese’s Cups during those glorious days.

We learned a few things about hotels, too. Like the fact that no one hangs around a hotel in the middle of the day, so it’s really fun to sit in the atrium and feel like the place is your own giant mansion, with dozens of Downton-like staff scurrying this way and that. Atrium hotels are the best anyway – they feel so giant, yet so communal. From the breakfast area, you can see every single person going in or coming out of all 280 rooms. (Yes I counted.) A lack of creepy meandering claustrophobic hallways is a huge plus.

Speaking of claustrophobia, it helped that for some reason, George from State Farm (from here out known as “The Sugar Daddy”) put us in a premium suite. It was absolutely giant, so the boxed-in feeling that a four-year-old boy can add to a hotel room was really downplayed. But on the flip side, there was no seating available after the sleeper sofa was pulled out for the children, so I had to make myself a settee out of the discarded sofa cushions and extra pillows.

(Chris accused me of making a blanket fort, and I didn’t deny it.)

We also learned that Noah is THAT kid – the one that talks incessantly to strangers, to the point where they start to get annoyed and try to politely escape his never-ending conversation. Although the accessories he chose to wear during our stay did make him a bit more endearing.

There was the man on the elevator that Noah befriended, telling him all about our leak and living in the hotel. Then, as we all got off on the same floor, Noah added, “We have GOT to show you our hotel room! It is SO. AWESOME!!”

Nothing awkward about that. Or the Stranger Danger lecture the man gave him as we all walked down the same hallway.

Then there was the poor teenager at the pool, Byron. Noah spent the better part of two hours begging Byron to play with him, watch him jump, and watch his cool trick. No matter how many times I told Noah to leave Byron alone, he always went back to bothering Byron.

Every person Noah encountered got the full scope of the damage done to our house, and learned all about our hotel residency. We found out interesting facts because of this, like the fact that the hotel had a recent flood, too, and had many dehumidifiers in rooms, working to mitigate the damage done by a guest who, upon checking out, decided to leave their water running.

That could explain the good behavior covenant we had to sign when we checked in…

The downside of our hotel was that, as it was an Embassy Suites, its on-site restaurant was Ruths Chris. Not…exactly where you eat as a family just because it’s convenient. That coupled with the fact that I was still on a soft foods diet left the kids puzzled as to why we never entered the restaurant on site.

(Because we don’t buy people under eighteen years old $60 steaks, children.)

When we finally arrived home on Wednesday evening, we discovered what true silence is – it is what occurs when four introverts have been living in a hotel room together for five days, and all of a sudden are set free in their home environment.

We each immediately scattered to opposite corners of the house and read, played, and unpacked without breathing a word.

And it was a beautiful thing.

Diary of a Tired Mom.

February 16, 2015February 21, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, A Day in the Life, Diary of a Tired Mom, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

Why is the most overused song lyric in the history of the world “All Night Long”? The phrase spans decades and genres, has been in more songs than the words bae, shawty, and boo combined, and IT IS A LIE.

You know what happens all night long?

Not what they’re talking about.

No.

Uh Uh.

The things that happen all night long are stomach viruses.
And raging diarrhea.
And colicky babies.
And rocking inconsolably screaming babies.
And feeding newborns.
And neighbor’s car alarms.
And backaches.
And croupy coughs.
And work, when there are impossible deadlines.
And you know what else happens all night long, sometimes, if we’re lucky?
SLEEP.

THAT’S what music should be celebrating.

Here’s a list of things that do not, in real life, happen all night long:

1. Sex,
2. Partying,
3. And getting down on the dance floor.

I want to know what superpower Dads possess that allow them to completely tune kids out while trapped in a moving vehicle.

I hear every word, every breath, every candy wrapper dropped to the floor, every silent bad attitude, and certainly every argument. If Chris is trying to talk to me and there are conversations going on in the backseat, my head nearly explodes with the inability to process both at once and greater inability to only listen to one or the other.

Yet the children can be saying, “Hey Daddy? Hey Daddy? Hey Daddy! DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY” and I finally have to say “CHRIS. The children are trying to talk to you. PLEASE ANSWER THEM SO I DON’T JUMP OUT OF THIS CAR RIGHT NOW WHILE YOU ARE DRIVING SEVENTY MILES AN HOUR ON THE INTERSTATE.”

“Oh – sorry! I didn’t hear them.”

Whatever that special DNA twist is, I will pay anything for it.

Can I get on a transplant list?

My husband is the sensitive sort, rarely offending and almost always spoiling me in every way.

But he’s still a man.

And he doesn’t understand all things of women. So sometimes, I attempt to explain The Feminine Plight to him.

A few weeks ago, for instance.

We were driving along, and I mentioned, sadly, that I had started my period.

He thought for a second, then made a practical and completely unemotional remark about how I should feel better before such and such future plans.

I grew silent, brooding about his lack of empathy toward the currently occurring crushing of my internal organs.

That night at bedtime, I tried to teach him a new level of understanding women.

”Here’s the thing, babe. A period is always a tragedy and should be treated as such. It doesn’t matter that it happens once a month and that us women usually know it’s coming. It’s still a tragedy. Every time, no matter what. It is not an item to be practically planned around, it is an item to show mournful sympathy towards.”

I could see the cogs in his brain jerking and steaming, trying to process what exactly it was that I expected from him.

“So….I need to…mourn it…every time.”

“Exactly.”

“Is this something I should share on my Facebook, perhaps? I could have a status like, ‘It sure is sad to see this Uterine Lining go. It was like a member of the family.”

“Well, that would show a lot of respect…but probably not.”

“Or what if I named them like storms? You know, in alphabetical order each year. This month’s could be Uterine Lining Ava, and next month could be UL Belinda.”

“You might be missing the point a little bit….”

“Would referring to them by number be better? ‘UL12’?”

”You know what. Never mind.”

There is nothing more detrimental to a parent’s mere existence than that light-sensitive Melissa and Doug puzzle.

You know the one. The one with the animal sounds.

The pieces get lost within seven minutes of obtaining ownership, leaving those shining dots just waiting to register every change in lighting in your life.

Then the kids leave the puzzle in your bedroom floor, so the rooster alerts you to daybreak. Followed immediately by the pig. And then the kitten and dog and duck, in a chorus of murderous cacophony.

Or that stupid cow moos in the middle of your One Quiet Moment Of The Day and nearly makes you wet your pajamas.

(Because you never got out of your pajamas.)

(Because you were rocking that baby. All night long.)

Here’s a list of other things that make parents consider buying a one-way ticket to Fiji:

1. Play-Doh. Because why did they have to make it so crumbly? WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY TO OVERCOME CRUMBS. Use it.

2. Balloons. Children become unnaturally attached to balloons, somewhat like Wilson the Volleyball in Castaway. And no matter how shrunken they become, how long they’ve been missing their helium, and how annoyingly they float whimsically all over your house, your children will insist on keeping them.

You know what I do? I murder balloons after bedtime. There is nothing more satisfying than taking a steak knife to a balloon and then carefully hiding the evidence.

3. Glitter and Glitter Glue. They are the Gift from Satan that never quits giving.

4. Bubble Bath. It’s the ultimate tool in a Stalling Child’s arsenal. It stretches out bath time, makes it harder to rinse their hair than finding the pieces to that blasted Melissa and Doug puzzle, and intrinsically allows them to stay up later. Don’t let them use it against you, parents of the world.

5. Toys that use up 90% of their battery the first day of use and then hobble along on the remaining 10% for the next six years, consequently singing woefully off-tune and with painfully distorted cadence. They plan them this way, you know. It’s a conspiracy theory I could believe.

6. All Children’s Music. Except for Silly Songs with Larry.

7. Paint. It’s the item that they always want to pull out at the most inopportune time, and it never goes where it’s intended. And does children’s paint ever dry? No. Because they pile it on in the thickest, goopiest, most bleed-through-the-paper way possible.

8. Capri Suns. Did you know that it is scientifically impossible to stab that stupid straw into the thinnest part of the foil pouch without causing a tiny, sticky geyser? Because it’s true.

9. Stickers. No matter how conscientious your child is, those stickers are magnetically drawn to hardwood floors.

10. ALL Sippy Cups. It’s twenty-freaking-fifteen. We can’t invent a sippy cup that doesn’t mold?

May you all get some sleep tonight. All night long.

The Turkish Connection.

March 7, 2014March 6, 2014 Rachel Callahan Delicious Greekness, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Weird Strange and True

Whenever I’m in the car alone, if I have the presence of mind to turn off Veggie Tales (and there is nothing like the rage of a mommy when she realizes that she’s inadvertently listened to Veggie Tales alone for half an hour), I turn on Spotify and blow my speakers out in the attempt to feel like a teenager again while I’m not breaking my back to repeatedly twist and pick up sippy cups from the floorboard.

On my last journey out, Jason Derulo’s song “Talk Dirty” came on.

It’s a horrible song and I don’t recommend torturing your ears in that manner.

However, the Turkish-esque saxophone solo during the chorus immediately brought back vivid memories of this fantastic night, so I had no choice but to share it with you again.

Originally posted June 5, 2012.

After booking any trip out of town, the first thing that Chris and I do is look for the local Greek restaurant.

I was brought up on Greek food – “Yes you will eat lamb, and you will like it!!”, and I adore it with all of my being. And Chris, being that he is Mister-Perfect-For-Me, has also come to have a great appreciation for the cuisine.

We have found ourselves in Atlanta for one reason or another a lot lately. We usually have our Greek Adventures at Taverna Plaka or Kyma, but on one particular trip, we wanted to try somewhere new.

We wanted a hole in the wall Greek Restaurant – because they tend to be the most genuine. So Chris Urbanspooned it and found one. Turkish AND Greek, but it would do.

(Which, by the way, this has always puzzled me. Seeing as how the Turks and the Greeks hate each other with the ire of a thousand suns, how is it that you can have both under one roof?)

But it definitely looked like a hole in the wall.

We ventured out of our comfort zone of known Atlanta and found it – but just barely. It wasn’t wide enough for me to lay down in, not that I’m in the habit of lying down in restaurants.

We parked out front, but didn’t have change for the parking meter. As we were driving up, Parking Enforcement was driving away, so we assumed that it would be in our best interest to procure some change.

I walked into the Café, and an old Turkish man who was obviously the owner was standing at the counter.

“Excuse me – can I get change for these two dollars? We’re trying to park out front.”

He looked shocked…and a little angry.

“No! I will not get you change! You move back and not pay!”

“Um…what do you mean?”

He huffed and ran past me out of the restaurant. He began yelling at Chris.

“You move your car back a space! You see? No parking meter!! They can no make you pay there!!”

Chris and I looked warily at the non-parking space parking space.

Turk grew impatient. “You move your car!!!!”

Chris obeyed, which began our descent into nervousness about getting towed.

We walked back in the tiny restaurant, and started toward a table.

“No! Those tables are for bigger parties. You sit at the bar!! You will get best service in the house!!”

We headed to the bar, if you could call it that. It had an tea machine halfway in my space, and the cash register was one seat down on the other side. We squeezed in between the drinks and the money and began perusing the menu.

The owner was yelling and talking at everyone else as if they were all family. Most likely the Turkish Mob.

He then turned to us. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“Well, we always like to find new Greek places to go when we’re out of town.”

And I saw it on his face. Insult. Yes, he is definitely Turkish – NOT Greek. He walked away without saying a word.

A few minutes later, after composing his Turkish Self Esteem, he came back.

“You ready to order?”

We ordered the combination appetizer platter, getting excited about eating hummus and tzatziki and tabouli and other such delightful treats.

He turned his head and nearly burst our eardrums yelling to the very back of the restaurant for our order to be made. A few minutes later, he brought us over two paper plates – one with dips, one with pita bread.

“These dips are the best we have. If you don’t eat this, you get nothing else!!!”

“Okay…we will eat it!”

“I will make you a bite. It will be good.”

He picked up a piece of pita bread off of the plate and began mixing the dips into a conglomerated hash. He then shoved a bite in Chris’ mouth, as Chris uncomfortably accepted his hand-delivered bite.

“Yes…that was very good!”

“I will get you another one!”

He started mixing dips again and shoved it toward Chris’ face.

This time, Chris beat him to it and put his hand out.

“That’s okay – I will feed myself.”

“No! You eat this bite!”

I volunteered to save Chris from this awkward man-on-man feeding extravaganza. “I’ll take that bite!”

“No! I have another bite in mind for you. You — eat this bite!”

He shoved it in Chris’ unwilling mouth, coating his beard in dips.

“Yes. That was good.”

He prepared another perfect mixture for me, and force fed it to me. After we finally seemed to do a good enough job of convincing him that we were properly satisfied with our dip plate, he relieved us and left.

And began yelling in Turkish at the guy in the back of the restaurant, who was presumably his son.

They yelled angrily back and forth from the kitchen to the counter, and then his son came out of the kitchen to increase the intensity of the yelling.

Then the son put a smile on his face and came to talk to us in English.

Then began scowling again and yelling in Turkish back at his dad.

Then smiling, and talking in English.

Apparently, they were convinced that if we couldn’t understand what they were saying, we would assume it was all nice things. But there was clearly some Turkish cursing in the mix.

Old Turk came back over. We ordered our dinner, and he noticed that we only had a couple of pieces of bread left.

“What?? Why you eat all of the bread?? You have so much left to eat!!”

I jokingly said, “Maybe you didn’t give us enough bread to go with it!”

He gasped in anger.

“THEES!! THEES IS NOT DIP!! Dip is what you eat with CHIPS!! THEES is food!! The bread – the bread has yeast in it. And the water you drink? No Yeast. You mix them together in your tummy and you know what happens???”

He stuck out his belly and motioned that I, too, would get fat from the evils of more bread.

“So there. You see? No more bread for you!!”

A Turkish family walked into the restaurant, all dressed up in their finest. A Mom, Dad, and two kids.

He yelled out greetings to them.

“Ah! You look beautiful!! I must take your picture!!”

The ten year old girl made obvious motions that she did NOT want her photo taken.

“What? You must let me take your picture!! I can put it on my Facebook page. You want to help my business, don’t you??”

He took a picture of her scowling face.

Yes, that will clearly help his business.

As we were eating our entrees, two more obvious newbies walked in.

“You! Sit at the bar! You get the best service of the place!”

They ordered the combination spread appetizer.

He came over. Began mixing bites and shoving them in their faces.

“These dips are the best we have. If you don’t eat this, you get nothing else!!!”

Chris and I looked at each other. And at the same time, realized that we had apparently just taken part in a well-rehearsed dinner theater.

…and then we ran out of the restaurant to make sure that we hadn’t gotten towed.

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