How to pick a diner

As I have explained before, I'm not the girl who works out as a "change to my lifestyle." I'm not cutting out ice cream and cookies or hamburgers and fries. Nope, I workout to maintain my lifestyle - the style that includes drive thru windows. I just want to continue my ways as a fast food junkie without requiring bypass surgery at 37. So after working out this morning, I took David to one of my favorite diners for lunch. Mama's Daughters is not the place to go if you are on a diet. It is also not the place for heart patients, diabetics or the health-conscious. It is, however, fabulous home cookin' for the rest of us. It occurred to me while we ate that there are those unfamiliar with the language of Diner Drawl. Allow me to educate you...

There are a few main things you need to look for when choosing a diner:
1) Survey the parking lot - If yours is the nicest car in the lot, your odds are looking good. Be suspicious of any place with luxury vehicles lining the rows. The more beat up Ford pickup trucks, the better.

2) Check IDs - You want to be sure you are in the minority when it comes to the number of people using their AARP discount card to pay for their meal. If you are not the youngest person by a few decades, you aren't in the right place. If you are surrounded by cute old men wearing hats with fishing lures tied to the seams...you've hit the jackpot.

3) Keep your eye on the collars - Diners are not the place for a corporate business meeting, so you want blue collars not white ones. No one knows where to find good home cookin' like a man who's been doing manual labor and has 30 minutes for a lunch break. If you don't see shirt patches with the logo of an auto, HVAC, plumbing or construction company, you may want to reconsider.

4) Follow the unfashionable - Eating at a diner is about one thing - good food. It's not the runway. Places claiming to serve home-cooked food where there are 75 people out front in designer gear waiting an hour for a table are not diners. Be suspicious of any establishment where people are dressed in fabrics that require dry cleaning. You are most likely going to spill gravy on your pant leg, so jeans (or the elastic-waisted sweats I wore) are preferable.

Happy dining! Don't forget to tip your waitress - she has at least 2 other jobs, goes to school and has 4 kids. She works hard and deserves a little extra blessing.

Shhhhhhh!

I had a wake up call today. God called to tell me to shut up and stop my whining. I know you're thinking that's rude. God is so loving and would never tell someone to shut up. Oh, my friends...happens more often than I'd like to admit. God has my direct line and sometimes He has to get loud. It doesn't mean He's not loving. It means I'm stubborn.

For the past two days, I've been complaining. I'm tired; I'm sick of hearing a crying baby; I need a break. Brynna has hit the grossly over-attached phase of life, and it's wearing me out. She wants my attention 24 hours a day. She wants me to hold her or be playing with her constantly, which means I can't get anything else done. (I'm presently typing after just putting her down for a nap. It's almost 3pm, and I haven't showered.)

God just called to say... "Regina. Shhhhh!" Although it's true that I'm tired and it's overwhelming, I am also blessed beyond measure. I have a baby! So many women don't. I have a healthy child! Was it that long ago Brynna left the NICU or my niece stopped chemo treatments that I forgot how to be thankful for every single day of health? I have a kid who wants my attention! How many women right now don't know where their baby is and are wondering if she's alright? So, yeah, God told me to shut up. I needed some perspective.

I talked to a friend this week who got a similar call from God. She's hurting in her marriage. She's struggling with loss of control and all the other fun things those vows bring with them. But what God had to say is, "Baby Girl, shhhhh!" There is no greater blessing for a woman than the love of a godly man. He will provide you with a lifetime of affection if you let him. He will protect and serve you if you let go of the control of how he does it. He will give you children and a place to call Home. His love won't ever be perfect. He's still a man. But how many women want that companionship? How many women would give anything for that bond?

I listened as a young woman who months ago complained of no income now complains about her work environment. God answered the prayer for a job. Did He mess up? Did he give the wrong blessing? No. He's just saying, "Daughter, shhhhh." You have a job! You have food on your table and clothes on your back!

Where do you need some perspective? Marriage, family, kids, work? Maybe it's more hidden. Maybe you're complaining to God about a problem you're causing with your choices. Maybe you're yelling about consequences when you made the decision that led to them. Maybe, just maybe, God wants you to hush. Be quiet. Stop talking. No more yelling. You can't hear when your mouth is open.

And keep it shut. He's not impressed with our ability to sit quietly for an hour. Anyone can do that. Keep that mouth closed for a few weeks and see how clear your perspective becomes. I bet whatever it is will turn out not so horrible after all.

Bad Hair Season

Most people have a bad hair day. But I'm not most people. I don't do things halfway. I'm an over-achiever. I like to go big or not at all. So why have a bad hair day when you can have a bad hair season - the whole Fall, for example?

A few years ago, I got my hair cut in the cutest little bob you've ever seen. I loved it. It was my signature cut. Since my white-blonde hair doesn't allow much to experiment with in terms of color, I like to play with styles. Ever so often, I cut my hair short then grow it long. Then I cut some bangs, then I chop it all off again. It's a fun little cycle. When I found out I was pregnant, I started the grow-it-out process. Once I had Brynna, though, I realized it was silly to think that long hair would be easier. And while dealing with this new body that didn't quite feel like mine, I wanted a fun, short cut that was all me - my bob! The girl who cut the signature bob has moved to New York. I have a nice gent who's been cutting my hair since she left, but he's really only maintained the growing out process. I thought maybe it was time for a stylist change. I needed someone who could be fun and creative and not afraid to be a bit edgy. Edgy, however, denotes a cliff nearby and I may have gotten a little close to the side...

I went to a friend of a friend. She cut it short, fun and cute. It wasn't my bob, but I liked it. It was something new, and only a few months post-pregnancy, it was a fun change. She was a bit expensive, so the next time I went to a new girl in the same salon. I was feeling all free and adventurous, so I took in a picture of a much shorter cut. My only fear was it being too short and looking like a boy. She said she'd modify it a bit and it'd be great. Great it was not. Not only did I not get the cut I went for, it was WAY shorter than the picture and wasn't textured well. I had to go to the first girl and have her texture it, taking off even more length.

Now I mean no disrespect to anyone, but if one more person says, "You got your hair cut..." If you didn't know, this phrase does not mean, "Your haircut is cute." If they thought it was cute, they'd say cute. This phrase means, "I noticed your haircut and you caught me so I have to acknowledge it. I don't think it's cute, so I'll just say You got your haircut..." The only thing worse is when it's followed by, "It looks like Kate's hair from Jon & Kate Plus 8." OMG! Really? My hair looks like the girl who everyone made fun of for Halloween? Awesome. Anyone have a paper bag handy? I need to breathe into it. Or wear it as a hat!

The really bad cut was over a month ago. Today I went to have it trimmed and thinned as it grows out. (If you've seen Kate, you know she and I both have thick hair and it tends to become a bit mushroom-like when tucked behind the ear. Yep. I said Kate. Since we HAVE THE SAME HAIRCUT!) Because it was so drastically cut, though, she had to cut it short again to get the layers to grow right. So now...IT'S EVEN SHORTER! I'm going the wrong way. I was scared to look like a boy and now I could pass for my brother.

The moral of today's story is this - if you see me on the street, just take a picture and tell all your friends you saw a reality-TV star...or my brother, Ryan.

Motherhood (aka: Herding Cats)

I've heard the metaphor "herding cats." I always thought it was funny. Then, I tried it. Not actual cats, but a being just as moody, sneaky and volatile - 3 small children. My neice and nephew came to visit the weekend of Halloween. We haven't had pictures taken of them since the babies were less than 2 months old, so I called my friend, Lauren, and asked her to come snap some pictures.

We started with the girls. We thought that would be easy. They love each other, Zoe has a fun hat, they have a matching outfit... what more do two little girls need to be happy? Apparetly a lot. Brynna was just up from a nap, so she was more cooperative than Zoe, but you can see what is to come. That look scares the heck out of me. You smile because it's cute but you kind of cringe because there's a little evil in those adorable eyes. Let's all take a moment of silence and pray together for my life when she's a teenager.

While we waited for the girls to change clothes and pull themselves together, Lauren took pictures of AJ. He's so easy. He's all boy - laid back, could care less, will smile if you ask but is really more interested in his toes than whatever drama the girls are causing. God love him for that. This portion of the day was more like herding cattle. Cows move when you direct them. Cows listen when you speak. Cats run, screeching in circles, doing what they want rather than what you ask. Case in point - back to the girls.

So the main objective of the day was to get a picture with all three kids. Christmas is coming soon and there's no faster way to take care of grandparent gifts than cute pictures of grandkids. They don't care that you spent 47 cents at Walgreens on their gift. They have bragging rights for a year with all their friends and life is good! Apparently we did not clearly define our goal for the models, however, because they misunderstood the purpose of the afternoon's activities. For the most part, they kept the meltdowns to one at a time. They didn't all freak out at once. But they ensured that the best picture of all three of them required that they have toys to chew on.

That's not to say there aren't great pictures. They are fabulous. And they will make a great collage photo frame. But that one picture in the middle that was supposed to have all of them together will just be reserved for the score.
Babies (cats): 1, Mommies (herders): 0.

Operation Not a Bum

It's like I can see the future. It happened just as I predicted. I went to class today after missing 3 weeks in a row and almost died. Seriously. Right there in the YMCA gym. Near-dead. Me.

You'd think my voice that still sounds like a lounge singer with emphysema would have clued Beth in. You'd think she would suggest I take it easy today since I've been out so long. Well, YOU may not think those things, but I did. I hoped. I was wrong. Since it was cold and windy outside, Beth decided we'd all do cardio together in the gym. So we ran laps until I felt my lungs were going to swell out of my chest. Then we walked laps. We had barely ended the last lap when Beth told us to line up. I felt my stomach drop and sure enough, she started calling for sprints. To the black line and back. To the next line and back. To the end and back. One girl huffed between breaths, "She must think we're a basketball team," to which Beth replied, "sure." (I don't even know what that means!)

I thought the sprints were coming to an end when she told us to pick up weights. We went down and back doing walking lunges. My legs felt a bit like noodles, but I was at least not breathing as hard, which was helping the smoker's cough. Oh, but wait. Just as we approached the end of the lunges, she said, and I quote: "When you reach the black line, drop your weights and sprint to the other end." Seriously. I've used a thesaurus. I'm running out of synonyms for "human torture." We did this a few more times and then to top me off, we did the awful, dreaded, infamous abduction bands. At this point, I started telling funny stories. I thought maybe if I got everyone laughing, it wouldn't hurt as bad. No luck there.

We finally moved into the gym for what Beth called "Ab Blast." We did abdominal work for the next 30 minutes, which my waistline needed but after all the hacking and coughing, didn't help my stomach much. And I'm still not sure how push ups are included in an ab workout, but those were thrown in as well. We ended with some pilates and stretching. I may have napped during this section. I for sure yawned a lot.

So here is the take-away for today:
1. If working out is hard when you're healthy, it is downright unadvisable when you can barely breathe.
2. Beth asked if I have lost weight. I responded, "I hope so. I'm not here because I like it." Darn. That means this craziness is helping and I have to keep doing it. Blah!

Stuff

When I was in high school, I had a teacher who hated the word "stuff." She said it was a nondescript term, like "weird". She required that I describe objects in more detail. I have no detail to offer, however, for the amount of STUFF I carry around for Brynna. She's a small person. She weighs 18 lbs. She can't walk or talk. She has little hair and no teeth. Yet when we leave the house, I have to pack the car like we are going on a 3 day road trip with no access to stores, technology or indoor plumbing.

As we do every Thursday, last night we went to church. On these nights, she's not home and in bed by her usual 8:00, so I have tried several different tactics to make things as easy as possible both for her and her caregivers. Last night I thought I'd figured out the end-all solution. I asked the girls to feed her at the normal time and put her to bed in a room down the hall. My plan was to put her down as though she were home and then just transport her when it was time to go.

I packed this girl like she was going on a weekend camping trip! I brought all kinds of stuff - her dinner, bottle, pajamas, blankets, the positioner she lays on so it'd feel like her bed...I even brought her monitor so they could keep an eye on her but not have to leave the other kids. And this is where the plan went south. Brynna did fine. There were a few interruptions that made the plan work less than perfectly, but all-in-all, it was fine. The problem was picking her up - more specifically, picking up all her STUFF.

When the program ends, I have duties to help clean up, but Daddy doesn't. And keeping him from his baby girl for more than a few minutes is like watching the torture of a defenseless animal. You just want the sadness to end. So by the time I get to the nursery, he's usually covering her in kisses, headed for the door. At this point, I begin grabbing anything I see that might belong to us and running after them out the door. He literally is thinking only about getting home to snuggle with her. As I posted a few weeks ago, he once got home without the diaper bag or my wallet! Last night, the crazy was magnified because I brought so much darn STUFF! I was pushing the stroller down the hall as the girls threw in blankets, bottles and bowls. I am an obsessively-organized person at times and I got home not knowing up from down. As I unpacked, I soon learned we had all the random pieces of the monitor except for the camera. (Kind of important to the function of the device. Doesn't matter if you have a monitor if there's nothing to look at.)

All this because my tiny little girl can't leave the house without a barrage of STUFF. Bottles and snacks in case of hunger. Burp cloths and wipes in case of spit up. Aubie in case of meltdown; diapers in case of...you get the point. I apologize to my high school English teacher and to the students I later wouldn't allow to use the word "stuff" in papers. I have no other word. When babies are involved, they just have a lot of STUFF!

Operation Not a Bum?

So here's the deal. When you start an operation to prove you are not a bum, it implies you have bum-like tendencies. I was doing so good with my little operation until 3 weeks ago. I got sick and called to tell Beth I wasn't coming. "No big deal," I thought. I can rest today and go to Fit Moms tomorrow with the Tuesday group. I didn't feel better the next day, so I decided to rest and not go then either. No big deal, though. It's just one week. As if you hit repeat on a song that wasn't that great the first time, the next week sounded strangely similar. My illness had morphed from a head cold into muscle aches and fatigue, so I once again decided against my friendly form of torture. This week, the alien invasion in my body turned to laryngitis. Now, I can't, in good conscience, suggest that this means I couldn't have walked on a treadmill. But I did have other obligations come up with church. The bottom line? For the third week, I didn't go to Fit Moms.

So here's my point. I'm a bum. Like my super blonde hair - it's a quality ingrained in who I am. Perhaps I should have called it Operation Lose-the-post-pregnancy-inner tube-around-my-middle. That, I have actually made some progress on. Had I made progress on the bum part, though, I would have made it by the Y at some point in these 3 weeks even if I couldn't be there for class. Did I do that? Nope. Am I going to die next class when Beth expects me to be up to speed with everyone else? Highly probable.

I don't want to be a bum. I want to be one of these people that enjoys working out. I want to be like Brandy, who can get up at 5am and go to bootcamp, who works out even when she's on vacation. I want to be like Vikki, who has made friends and loves going to the gym for hours at a time. But I'm Regina. And I would much rather go to the mall.

Let them eat cake!

There is something about cake. There are lots of desserts, and they are good. I mean them no disrespect. But nothing beats a good piece of cake. It's a perfect dance that when done correctly is irresistible. The cake has to be moist but not so much that it falls apart. The icing has to be flavourful but not too rich to overpower the cake. And there MUST be a perfect balance - not to much icing but not too little. I hear what you are thinking, and yes, I've given it this much thought. It's that serious.

So today, Brynna and I went to Fellowship Downtown to volunteer as we do every Tuesday. We arrived, got our marching orders and I began to help while she played and distracted those who actually work at the church. I soon learned that there was cake in the building and that meant 2 things - 1) someone must be having a birthday and 2) Marianne made it. Marianne is known far and wide for her ability to throw down in the kitchen. She will put her foot in some dessert! (Translation for those uninformed - that means it's real good!)

So Brynna and I rushed upstairs and were overjoyed to find not just cake - not just Marianne's cake - Marianne's yellow cake with chocolate icing. Angels began singing and I think I heard God say in a loud voice, "Well done, my good and faithful one." At some point I must have handed off my child because halfway through my cake, I realized Chris (our pastor) was holding her. I then realized that in my haste to get to the dessert, I hadn't been so attentive to Brynna's diaper situation. My kid was stinking up the place while people were trying to eat. Oops!

But my cake was sooo good! It's hours later and my tummy is still partying.

ps - Don't tell Beth. This is not on the lose-the-post-pregnancy-belly diet.