Rebecca Regnier's Blog, page 2

My Sea Monkeys Teacher

If you call me, I won’t answer. You can try to reach me on my cell or on our ancient landline. But I won’t answer.

I use my cell phone for everything from watching exercise videos to playing word games. It’s my camera and my map of the world. The thing monitors my heart and calls 911 if it suspects I am in distress. (This usually happens when I attempt high-intensity interval training.) While my phone evolved into the utility belt of my life—and it’s only one, small technological step down from a Star Trek Tricorder—I never use it as an actual phone. I’d rather clean tile grout with a cotton swab than answer a phone call on it.

This is because of scammers. If someone is calling my home or cell, it’s to scam me. You can’t convince me otherwise. If it’s an unknown number or not scheduled, it is a scam.

As evidence, I give you my clogged voice-mail inbox. It is filled with messages from unknown numbers. The voice on the other end is sometimes a friendly-sounding man asking me to help law enforcement. He begins with a casual laugh. He’s just hanging around with his friends and happened to call to ask for my money. Other times, the scammer has a pleasant female voice offering to help me with employee insurance.

Every once in a while, it is a deep, electronically disguised voice explaining I better call the IRS immediately or I’ll be arrested forthwith. This computer voice implies that the Terminator might also be sent to my front door. And, of course, my car warranty needs immediate attention, even for cars I no longer own.

But it’s all a waste of time, scammers. I’m not some innocent, midwestern kid stepping off the bus in Hollywood, hoping for stardom. Nope. I’m a grizzled, street-smart, private-eye type. I am cynical and hardened. You can’t fool me with your phone scam, bucko.

I acquired my scam radar at a young age. Credit for this goes to sea monkeys. 

I am from the generation of children who saw ads for sea monkeys in the back of comic books. The illustration and ad copy guaranteed that I’d be able to grow and train a kingdom of congenial, humanoid sea creatures. What fun! It would be like playing Barbies, but they would know how to swim and be ALIVE! I paid good allowance money to order a community of sea monkeys, to be delivered via U.S. Mail. I fell hook, line, and sinker for the promise in that advertisement.  

I waited six to eight weeks for my sea monkeys. While I waited, I envisioned my benevolent rule over the sea kingdom. You know where this is going, don’t you? When my sea monkeys arrived, I discovered that sea monkeys weren’t fully formed merfolk at all. They were brine shrimp. Watching brine shrimp swim around is the least fun thing a person can do. I believe an entire generation of bright-eyed kids like me discovered a lot about the world through a similar experience. The sea monkeys showed me that I was a chump.  

But now I am street smart, and that extends to my attitude toward the proliferation of telephone scammers. My boomer-generation parents were not burned by sea monkeys. Periodically, I remind them that phone calls only come from no-good grifters. Sure, the pharmacy will call to let you know your pills are ready, but other than that, keep your guard up.  

If my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize, I ignore it. I gave at the office.  

Scammers continue to morph their methods, and it’s important to be vigilant. While researching this column, I came across the latest phone scam, which is a new spin on an old ploy. Instead of money or credit cards, the scammer asks you to fund some type of cryptocurrency. Take it from gimlet-eyed old me: No government, law enforcement, utility company, or lottery prize will ask you to fund cryptocurrency. Your nephew might, but probably not on the phone.

Let me close by offering this long, overdue, public thank-you to sea monkeys. You taught me well. 

Originally Published in AAA The Extra Mile

The post My Sea Monkeys Teacher appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Fighting About Money

In many ways, my husband and I are opposites. Not in ways you can immediately discern by looking at us, but in the most fundamental ways. For example, he doesn't like peanut butter and thinks mayonnaise and Miracle Whip are interchangeable. To me, that's stark, raving madness. In the interest of equal time, I count walking as exercise, and he thinks that's why we're on the verge of societal collapse. Yardwork and walking are not exercise in his immutable categorization of stuff that's hard. Period.    

We've been married a long time and have been a couple even longer. For perspective, first-run movies at the theater when we first started dating cost a penny. Kidding. They were like three dollars and fifty cents. I can't be sure, though. My boyfriend—now husband—always paid. I had bigger concerns, like how to fit driver's ed classes in between cheerleading practices, or how to fulfill my sacred duty of sticking tissue paper into chicken wire for the homecoming float.  

While we agreed on movies, music, books, religion, and even parenting, we discovered we were opposites when it came to finances and budgets. I didn't like budgets. I know, hard to predict that one.   

We have both always been employed. My income is less than his, but my health insurance benefits are great. Ah, appreciating health benefits. That is the true measure of adulthood.

We never thought “that is your money, and this is my money.” It was always our money. Figuring out the best way to handle our money is when the opposites-attract cliché turned out to be wrong. Flat Earth, Al Capone's vault, Steve Harvey announcing a beauty pageant winner…wrong. Neither of us found the other's method of money management attractive.  

We tried several methods of budgeting. First was a “no method” joint checking arrangement. Let's call this Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome Budgeting. It went how you'd expect.   

For a time, we tried a method of couples budgeting, whereby I handed my paycheck over to him. He used it responsibly to pay our bills. I was allotted an allowance. While bills got paid and savings were had, I turned bitter. This is the Rage Monster Wife Budgeting method that we realized did not bode well for our future. I was resentful and perpetually asking for a “tuppence, guv'na,” and he had to do “everything.”  

Over time, we've figured it out. My checks come to me, his to him. He pays the mortgage, and I pay college tuition. He pays for a new roof while I pay for health insurance. We have a clear picture of what needs to be done, saved for, and managed.

The key to all of this was being honest. He didn't like being cast as miserly while making sure we had things like a roof and food. I didn't like playing the role of a Dickensian street urchin. (He will tell you that Charles Dickens' orphans didn't have $100 a month to spend on beach-blonde highlights. Whatever…there's a whole chapter about it in “Tale of Two Cities.”)  

My husband is a planner. He's disciplined, intelligent, and logical. I'm fun at parties. But I also like health insurance. By communicating and using our past budgetary missteps, we've combined these opposing traits into something that works.  

We recently completed the renovation of our 22-year-old kitchen. This tests a marriage much like a harrowing couples trip through the hamster maze known as Ikea. Knowing he appreciates a plan, I priced out everything I wanted and presented a reasonable budget in an actual spreadsheet. We made smart decisions on necessities, versus things I saw once on HGTV.  

We had zero arguments about it, and I love the result.   

So, how did we get here?  

It was years of trial and error. Fights. Compromise. And me learning how spreadsheets work.  

As it turns out, our budget success depends on a mutual commitment to communicating our expectations with each other. Or it could be that both of us can't hear anymore. Either way…my kitchen looks so cute!   

Good luck, lovers.

Originally Published in AAA The Extra Mile

The post Fighting About Money appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

How to Beat the Winter Blues

“If you choose not to find joy in the snow, you will have less joy in your life but still the same amount of snow.” Anonymous.  

Winter blues. Seasonal affective disorder. Call it what you will, but a lot of us feel that unmistakable blah of winter.

The first person to put up holiday decorations the day after Labor Day is the same one brought low by actual winter. Snow in early November fills us with joy and jingle, but snow storms in mid-January mire us in malaise. 

Why? I think it’s mindset.  

During the pandemic, I went on a philosophical search (aka Google) to find ways to appreciate the “now.” Learning to love the place you’re in while you’re in it was a key coping strategy for my time in lockdown. I wound up painting rooms that I didn’t like, moving furniture around to change my view, and getting to know the birds in my backyard trees.  

How many times have you been on vacation and said, we have to come back here? I certainly have. It’s great to plan and look forward, but you’re missing the present. I’ve been on vacation thinking about the next vacation. I’ve failed to appreciate a beautiful sunset because I’m wondering if we can book this condo during the same time next year.  

With that thought in mind, how do we find joy in snow….now, not just went it’s attached to the holiday? 

Unsurprisingly, Norwegians have this figured out. They’ve turned appreciating winter into an art. I aimed to follow their lead when it came to the long winters in my home state, Michigan. It’s not exactly the tropics. Winter is an integral part of our lives here, second only to complaining about winter, followed closely by complaining about August.  

The first step is embracing friluftsliv! This is a Norwegian concept that translates to “open-air life.” Or, as your mother used to say, “Go play outside!” Norwegians contend the cold feels good. The brisk air fills the lungs with robustness versus the oppressive wilting that the humidity of July can induce.

Filuftsliv also means dressing for being outdoors and expecting that you’re going to be outside for a gathering. Norwegians wear layers, wool socks, and thermal underwear. We do it for tailgate parties. Why can’t we do it for a winter birthday? In fact, we love doing it when football is the endgame. What changes in February?  

Obviously, sometimes, say, when there’s an ice storm, going outside is ridiculous. That’s why winter countries like Norway, Finland, and Denmark not only enjoy the outdoors but they also make achieving coziness indoors an art. It’s called hygge. Hygge is defined as “a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being.” Think mulled wine and warm nooks. The Christmas tree isn’t the end-all of winter décor. Enjoy a crackling fire in the fireplace, comfy blankets, and cozy chairs. Grab hygge with both mittens and snuggle into that fluffy couch with the fluffy slippers and the fluffy blanket.   

Embracing hygge means embracing comfort. What better time than winter to wear our giant sweaters? In fact, those comfy sweats are the goal. If one does hygge right, the sweats are so comfy they shouldn’t be seen in public. There’s a word for that, too, hyggebukser. My closet is bursting with hyggebukser leggings!

No one loves every aspect of winter, but friluftsliv and hygge are about shifting your mindset. And seeing each new season as a gift. A positive winter mindset isn’t a genetic trait nor is it reserved for Norwegians. It is something we can adopt and cultivate. 

We rush into Winter Wonderland when it’s still autumn. Maybe that’s a mistake, not because it starts the holidays too soon, but because by the time winter really sets in, we’ve been fa la la-ing since October. We have a good two or three-month window of loving the “holiday season.” Opening that holiday season window just a smidge later, closer to December, might help us stick it out until March.

And, if the mindset shift doesn’t work, book a trip to somewhere sunny. The wind chill will be here when you get back. 

Originally published in AAA Club Alliance

The post How to Beat the Winter Blues appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Word of the Year

We're barreling toward the mid-2020s. Whoa.

I’ve just ordered my Jetson style-flying car from Amazon. 2023 does sound like we’ve arrived in the future.

Be that as it may, we still have to take out the garbage, empty the dishwasher, and clean our houses. We do have smart appliances, doorbells, cars, and thermostats, so a little of ‘The Jetsons' has come true. More than anything else, the 2020s have demonstrated, in the words of Ruth Langmore, “We don't know “sh*t about f**k, Marty.”

For several years, I’ve eschewed resolutions and focused on a word for the year.

In 2018, my word was “create.” It was designed to help me transition into a new phase of my professional life. I abandoned working for a big company and started working for myself, to create books.

Since 2018 I have released eighteen books. Create has become a permanent fixture of my workday life. The word has embodied what I do daily. Yay 2018 Word of the Year! You and I are one.

In 2019, I took a more specific approach to my word for the year. I observed others choosing expansive words like “joy” and wanting to go against the grain, I selected “water” for 2019. I hoped to help my health and general well-being by being fully-committed to being fully hydrated. In terms of manifesting action based on a word selection, I failed miserably. Not only did I not drink enough water in 2019, but I also drank way too much diet soda in 2019. The word “water” was a total bust.

For 2020, my goal was to replace the carpet in our family room, I was tempted to select “floor covering” as the 2020 word. Small-minded? Sure. True? Absolutely. But my 2019 failure with “water” showed me it is best to select a word with a higher goal.

I considered choosing the word “lunch” for my 2020 word. I want to commit to lunch dates with friends and family in 2020. In 2019 I made little time to “do lunch.” The times I did meet up with someone for a midday meal left me happy, restored and connected to the people that mean the most to me.

Except I didn’t make time nearly enough. Therefore, “lunch,” became a front-runner for 2020’s word.

In the final moments of 2020, a new word emerged. One that was broad in scope, like “create,” but one that helped me get the most out of work, home and even lunch. With that in mind my 2020 word was “focus.” I chose it to point my energy towards the people and activities I loved. So in 2020, I chose “focus” with the goal of connecting with people. HAHAHAHAHA.

Anyhoo. After that disaster, I skipped the whole word choice exercise in 2021 and 2022. I mean survive? That was really the only word we could do right?

But I'm back, and I'm trying again.

This year, I've selected the word for the year. I'm selecting “beach” as my 2023 Word of the Year. More beach books, more beach mindset, more actual beach. It also is my 2024, 25, and 26 Word. May as well get the jump on things.

Happy New Word and Happy New Year!!

The post Word of the Year appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Kitchen Renovation

Our kitchen was built in 1999. It was very 1990s. While this isn't the exact kitchen, in fact, I can't even FIND a picture of it from when we first moved in, 23 years ago, this is pretty much the style.

Kitchen style from the late 1990s.

Perfectly lovely, and what a lot of kitchens looked like back then. We loved it for about a decade and then in 2009 we painted the cabinets, installed a tile floor, added larger baseboards, and switched out lighting. The world hadn't wouldn't discover Joanna Gaines for more years, but I had clearly decided industrial farmhouse was cool. This was major, for sure, but more a redecorating than a remodel since the 1999 cabinets and countertops remained, albeit refreshed.

Kitchen Style from mid-2000s. Industrial Farmhouse inspired.

During the pandemic I decided it was time to update the entire house! I used our lockdown to paint trim, doors, walls, install tile, upgrade two bathrooms, and even replace our family room carpet. You can see some of the work, here, here, and here.

But by 2022 it was time to look at the kitchen again. Though we had updated it in 2009, with paint and fixtures, the cabinets were worn and no longer closed right, the laminate was chipping, and things were looking rough.

I enjoy kitchen “porn” and have a file folder stuffed with ideas from as far back as my college days. I was ready! I designed it myself, and retaining the same footprint helped to keep costs under control. I purchased cabinets from Menards and the countertops from Cutting Edge. (I'll add resource links at the end of the post if you like what I chose.)

Currently, I'm a fan of the styles in For the Love of Kitchens and The Established Home. I am leaning into an Unkitchen aesthetic. But also, I don't know if I'll live here forever. I was aiming for something I loved but also not so “custom” to me and my taste that it would turn off a potential future buyer someday. In addition, we have a nice house in a nice neighborhood, but it isn't a million-dollar listing type dealio. Spending half the price of a house on a kitchen redo, to me, seems nuts. I kept costs in line with our budget by using my Menards rebate to buy the sink, hardware, and sink fixtures. I chose in-stock, not a special order, countertop materials, and I was my own kitchen designer. That way I paid my installer and for the materials but not for markup or an interior designer. If I had a third career in life, it would be kitchen design, I find it so much fun! I made a few missteps on lighting and had to return a fixture or two until I got the look I wanted. Wayfair made that process a breeze, btw.

All in all the project took years of planning but the execution was pretty smooth. It took about six weeks from start to finish. Here it is! We're so happy with it and sometimes, I just stare at it. Yes. I'm a weirdo.

Here are resources if anything you see floats your boat!!

Cabinets – Menards (Safari is the color.)Countertop – Cutting Edge Montauk Stools – At HomeLighting – Ikea (over the island) and Mayfair Over Table Aerin Agnes in GoldBacksplash – Home Depot Capella White Brick 2-1/3 in. x 10 in. Matte Porcelain Floor and Wall Tile Bowren Home Renovations

The post Kitchen Renovation appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Toss Holiday Traditions That Cause Stress

I’ve written about the benefits of minimizing clutter, whether you’re a Marie Kondo fan or a Swedish Death Cleaning type. With the former, you keep what brings you joy; with the latter, you toss everything to spare your kids the job after you go.
 
When we think of clutter, we think of mismatched socks, paperwork, dead batteries, old magazines, or the box of cords for obsolete electronics. Getting rid of these things lets us see what we really have and enjoy it more. Clutter can cause stress. Eliminating it can be calming.

For me, the holidays can cause stress. I know we’re supposed to be bathed in a holiday-happy glow from the moment a pumpkin-spiced latte hits our lips right through to New Year’s Eve. Sure, it can be a magical, joyful, sparkly time with carols and candy canes. But everything from political disagreements with your favorite uncle to the inability to find little Timmy’s preferred gaming system to unearthing the gravy bowl from the basement can cause emotional strain. Combine all of these with the pressure to festoon the house inside and out, and the holidays can do a number on the blood pressure. (Did I mention holiday traffic?)
 
Recently, in an effort to manage holiday stress, I applied my decluttering philosophy to the holiday season. I looked at my rituals, obligations, commitments, and expectations. Do they bring me joy? Do they bring my family joy? If not, perhaps they should be set on fire and pushed into the sea, like a Viking funeral. (The holiday commitments/expectations, not the loved ones, mind you.)I asked myself, whose idea of the holidays am I trying to emulate? My core memory of what Christmas should look like was formed by the Osmond Family Christmas Specials in the 1970s. I realized the key to finding my joy was giving up the idea that perfection looks like Donny and Marie smiling around the tree while Merle plays the piano and Little Jimmy opens presents.

Holiday stress is a combo platter of internal and external forces. Some of the holiday things I was doing were for no other reason than they were expected. I didn’t particularly like doing them. Getting rid of the things I don’t enjoy lets me have more time with the people and rituals I do love. 
 
Every year, usually in October, someone says to me, “I’ve got all my shopping done.” This is the same as saying to me, “I lost weight on vacation.” While I’m happy for you, I also hate you a tiny bit.
 
I’m a last-minute gal. I don’t have all my shopping done ahead of time. But instead of comparing my progress or trying to change when I shop, I’ve begun to look at my last-minute rush as part of the fun. Just because I slide down the Bat Pole to get the gifts purchased and wrapped in time, doesn't mean I don’t love my family as much as the next person. That hustle and bustle to the finish line is my tradition and I like it. I’m going to start saying, “I’ve got NONE of my shopping done,” with gusto! No shame in my week-of-Christmas game.

I’m the one who puts the decorations up and takes them down. For years I had wreaths on every window and a manger scene and a centerpiece and two trees outside and a tree in the kids’ room, and more. Do you know what I like? A wreath and a tree. I will gladly enjoy my neighbor’s efforts at outdoing the Griswolds. But for me, a wreath and a tree do the trick. And they don’t leave me dreading the taking-down tasks.

Another holiday tradition of mine is ignoring ALL the good-health habits I’ve worked hard at during the year. I eat more, sleep less, and drink, uh, more, during the holidays. This year, my gift to myself is regular sleep and to hydrate with good ole water. A little fitness with my fa-la-la will also help me manage the pitfalls of too much holiday family fun. That said, cookies do bring me joy, so I’m keeping those.

The simple act of being together is the gift. Declutter the rest of it, and you find yourself at the corner of comfort and joy.

Happy Holidays!

Originally Published in AAA – The Extra Mile

The post Toss Holiday Traditions That Cause Stress appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

What My Grandmothers Taught Me About Baking

My two grandmothers were as different as night and day. They were alike, however, in the most important way—they were both the best grandmothers in the history of the world.

My childhood memories of baking with each of them are among my most treasured. I think about them this time of year as I make holiday plans, specifically baking plans.

Grandma Cecelia was Polish. Her kitchen was meticulously organized. Her stovetop gleamed. Grandma Cecelia liked to learn how to create new treats every year. She clipped recipes from magazines and made notes on which ones were her favorites. She took great care to make sure each dollop of cookie dough was uniform so they baked evenly. She wrapped homemade chocolate candies in delicate foil. She moved deliberately and kept the kitchen tidy. A lovely presentation was nearly as important as taste.

She supervised as I wielded a cookie press. She would nudge my hand left or right a smidge to evenly space the dough on the cookie sheet. She was exacting. But as was befitting of the best grandmother in the world, she made one thing clear. Being in my presence for our kitchen lessons was the only place she wanted to be. 

Grandma Ellen was the opposite in terms of culinary style. To my Irish grandmother, if it tasted good, it was good. And if I made it, no matter what it looked like, it must be a work of staggering genius. Her kitchen cupboards were a tumble of crockery and her cookie jar was always full. If my grubby hand left a print on her window glass, she was loath to wipe it away. She encouraged me to add whatever I wanted into the mixing bowl. If my toddler whim inspired me to stand on the kitchen table, she hovered underneath to be sure I didn’t fall. Once, upon witnessing her performing the function of a toddler safety net, my parents scolded her.

“Why are you letting her stand on the table?” 

“Because she wants to.” Argument over. This is classic Grandma Ellen.

My baking education came to me through both of my grandmothers.

And before I move on, please know, if you have little ones and your holiday to-do is long, you do not have to bake. Do not feel guilty if you cannot get to it. I’m the first one to order baked goods from skilled local bakers or a box of cookies from Kroger. Anything you can delegate—at the busiest time of your life, at the busiest time of the year—you should. 

For twenty years, that was me. Holidays overwhelmed me when piled on top of the day-to-day responsibilities of family and career. The bar is so high for young parents. The expectation to make Christmas a Disney-level magical experience is not joyful, and rarely triumphant.

The busyness of having to do everything loosens a bit as the nest empties. This is the gift time gives us if we’re lucky. These days I work for myself, and my kids are grown-ups. I’m not a grandmother yet. (She writes, hopefully.) To some degree, I can decide the level of hustle I’m willing to bustle.

I still lean on my grandmothers for cues.

Innately I am more like my Grandma Ellen in the neatness department. Try as I might, my cookies are never uniform. I’m not artistic or skilled at delicate decorating. If it tastes good, it is good. 

But the other side of the Christmas cookie coin is also important to me. Grandma Cecelia would not be rushed out of the moment. She was deliberate and calm. No frenzy accompanied her food prep. She was content and patient with the time required to cook or bake. Comfort and real joy are found in the process.

The holidays, untethered from expectations of grandeur, can be grounded in the simple pleasure of baking cookies, whether you’re an Ellen or a Cecelia in the kitchen. And if you’re a baker of a certain age, don’t lament that the kids are grown. You’re in the sweet spot of doing the things you love with those you love. The best grandmothers in the world know the recipe for warm holiday memories is ever-changing and uniquely yours.

Happy Holidays!

Originally published in AAA Club Alliance

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The post What My Grandmothers Taught Me About Baking appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Weird Stuff I Keep In My Car

The “just in case” gene is strong in me. I think it was passed down from my grandmothers. It skipped a generation with my mother, but it has flourished in me, perhaps even mutated.
 
My mother is not a hoarder of safety items, food, or anything—except flip-flops, of which she has every style known to womankind. Other than that, she travels light.
 
My grandmother was the type to scoop fistfuls of sweet-n-low packets into their pocketbooks, “just in case,” and because “you never know.”

 In my purse, the “just in case” includes a week’s supply of Tylenol, a safety pin, wet wipes, an extra pen and pencil (on top of the already-included pen and pencil), a disposable razor, and a pair of socks. Again, this stuff is on top of normal things like a wallet and lipstick. The “just in case” stuff is there in the event I get a massive headache while eating sticky food that ends up in my socks. Really, I have no idea what these items might be used for, but “you never know.”
 
My car “just in case” supplies are extensive, varied, and some would say, slightly unhinged. The “just in case” stuff is stored in the center console and the cargo area of my vehicle. Because “you never know,” I shall share them with you, and doing so just might save your life.
  
Up front, I have this tool that, to me, is prudent. To others, it is, uh, dark. It’s called a life hammer. It can shatter your windshield and cut your seat belt in an emergency. I’ve given them as Christmas gifts. No one in my circle appreciates them. It’s as if they think I’m trying to bring the celebration down by mentioning scenarios that would require a life hammer while people are emptying Christmas stockings. Still, put that life hammer in your car console, and thank me later. I also always carry an extra charger for my phone in my console in addition to the charger I have in my purse. Remember, this is the “just in case” list!

Obviously, I have tissues, but every extra napkin in the history of drive-thru dining is also available, along with every extra silverware packet, because you KNOW the person at the window will forget the silverware packet the next time.
 
We’ve now reached the deep-dive portion of my “just in case” list. Look away if you’re sure nothing out of the ordinary will ever happen to you. I have instant coffee, “just in case” I have to sleep in my car, along with a blanket, for the same reason. I have instant soup, bottled water, a tin cup, a candle, and a lighter. I will not starve to death in a traffic jam outside of Cincinnati, no sirree.

I also have a winter coat that stays in the car, a dog ramp, a yellow safety vest, a flashlight, and a rain poncho.

A social media query of my friends about their, some would say, weird, “just in case” items, elicited 271 comments. The results confirmed that I associate with people who are prepared! Sure, you could say we’re paranoid, but one man’s paranoia is another man’s treasure to barter with in an apocalypse. Folks revealed they have fishing poles, cans of tuna, gloves, a deck of cards, books, flares, and a machete. The machete is for zombies because, as mentioned, this is “just in case” you encounter them at the rest stop. Some carry a change of clothes, portable potties, tweezers, box cutters, masks, a flat iron, MREs, zip ties, Cheetos, St. Christopher medals, rosaries, and of course, a stuffed-animal Eeyore, for luck. Oh, and the neatest of my friends carries a Swiffer.

The wittiest answer was from a grandmother named Colleen. When prompted to name something “weird” you have in your car, she replied, “me.” Same, Colleen, same.

I think that covers it. Despite this list, you might think I’m prone to doomsday scenarios, but I’m not.

However, if zombies attack me during a rainstorm in the dark and offer me a Frosty from Wendy’s—but they don’t have utensils—I will be prepared.

It probably won’t happen, but you never know, and I’ll be all set, just in case.

Originally Published For AAA

The post Weird Stuff I Keep In My Car appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Why I Still Love The Family Road Trip

Almost every year for twenty-five years, my family has traveled to Florida for vacation. The tradition began in 1998 when we loaded our first minivan and traveled down I-75.

We started this when our kids were small and have continued it as our family has grown and changed, to where I am now the shortest one in the vehicle.

Recently we’ve been forced to cancel, as most travelers were, thanks to the pandemic. But finally, we’re headed out on the road again! Florida, here we come!

Without a doubt, family legends, recurring themes, catchphrases, and adventures of a lifetime happen when we hit the road. And many times, it’s the travel portion that stays with us over the actual vacation.

We drive “straight through.” We live in the upper Midwest, so this is a twenty-hour family odyssey.

Some people consider our marathon drive nuts. They helpfully point out that these new things called airplanes take you across the country in five minutes. True, but it is on these cross-country drives that our metal is tested as a family. It is also forged. Close quarters with limited supplies turned boys into men and moms into moms with more wrinkles.

It’s on these trips that we’ve strengthened our family bond by getting to know each other on a different level. Spending twenty hours strapped in a van forces the issue.

For example, early on, we learned that one of our children has the ability to slow his metabolic rate to near zero. He enters a stasis mode that keeps him suspended in a sleepy land of nod until we enter the parking lot of a Waffle House. At this point, he awakens, wide-eyed with clown hair, emerges from the minivan, eats a frightening amount of waffles and syrup, and then reenters the van and his suspended animation. He can do this for as long as it takes us to get where we’re going. The ability showed itself at age six and has only gotten more powerful with age.

We learned that everyone in the van must know our exact drive-through food order before my husband gets to the speaker. Must. Or you will be held in contempt, forever. Forever.

Like most loving families, our conversations while at home center on the nitty-gritty of surviving the mundane. Do we need milk? What’s wrong with that neighbor who fires up his leaf blower in the predawn hours of a Saturday? Where’s the remote?

On the road, the conversation shifts to a deeper understanding of each other, our hopes, and our dreams. We’ve even learned one of us frequently misinterprets common phrases. The weirdo thinks the phrase is “mine as well,” not “might as well.” He will not be moved from this wrongheaded stance.

One year my husband and I planned a budget strategy for a home renovation. On another trip, we debated which X-Men was our family’s favorite. This discussion revealed that our youngest thought that Washcloth was the name of one of the X-Men.

We laughed at him through Kentucky. But then engaged in a difficult conversation outside of a Knoxville-area Waffle House. It’s Cyclops, son, not Washcloth. If it weren’t for that car trip, he’d still be telling people Washcloth has laser vision. Plus, the teasing he endured from us toughened him up for the snake pit of elementary school. Same kid, by the way, who thinks it’s “mine as well.” I’m now wondering if he’s ever had an ear exam.

A family road trip forces you to prioritize what’s important. We don’t have to wait until Christmas to be reminded about the sanctity of a handheld gaming system and proper charger. This isn’t entertainment. This is the instrument of peace.

The twenty-hour car ride prompts introspection, too. There comes a time, in the dark of the night with a full moon above you and a long stretch of Georgia highway before you, that you look inside your soul and ask: Can I wait for forty-nine miles until the next rest area, or do I have to go now?

I strongly advocate the long family car trip, but only on the way to your vacation destination. You need to fly home, preferably, in separate planes.

Column Appeared in AAA

The post Why I Still Love The Family Road Trip appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Signing at The Lake

Thank you SO MUCH to the wonderful readers in Lenawee County who came to my book signing event at Michigan Gypsy. It was so much fun! We sold out of books! Here are a few pictures. If you're interested in signed books, I'll be signing a stack for the store and they should be in stock by June. And check out Michigan Gypsy for the coolest stuff for your lake life!

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