Rebecca Regnier's Blog, page 3

Zillow Addict

Looking at homes on Zillow is my new hobby. I don’t plan to move. I don’t plan to sell my home. But I find myself visiting Zillow all the time.

If you haven’t been in the market for real estate in a while, Zillow is one of several websites that list homes for sale. There’s nothing fancy about it. No learning curve to worry about. Just type in a city and boom! Pictures and descriptions of homes for sale in that area appear.

Traffic to Zillow’s mobile apps and websites was up 21% in 2020, so I’m not alone when it comes to my Zillow habit. People are buying and selling houses like crazy. While I’m not in the market at all, Zillow is my Zen these days.

I’m visiting Zillow as a hobby like I used to scroll Twitter, Facebook or TMZ.

I scroll through the listings and click on the images of the houses. It’s become one of the only stress-free places I can go online these days.

First of all, it’s a natural evolution of addiction to HGTV paired with the isolation of the endless quarantine. I’ve watched Chip and Joe, Erin and Ben, Jonathan and Drew, and Karen and Mina buy so many houses. So. Many. And I’ve seen them remove walls, popcorn ceiling, and front doors for Pete’s sake! Looking homes for sale is an HGTV episode in my mind.

“All this one needs is a fresh coat of white paint….”

I’ve written in this space that home improvement and DIY has been my salvation from the endless sameness of staying at home. I’ve painted the trim, for Pete’s sake! I asked Santa for an electric sander, for Pete’s sake. Looking at real estate online is a safe but creative outlet. A fun game of “what if.”

Browsing Zillow also saves money. You can’t put a house in your online cart and expect free shipping. I have purchased zero things from Zillow. Also, there are no gorgeous food photos. I can’t ruin my healthy eating plan on Zillow. I’m also not faced with anyone’s perfectly curated life. No unrealistic beauty standards to live up to, no comparisons to feel bad about.

And back to that stress-free component of my Zillow pastime. I’ve become incredibly frustrated with social media obstinance. For a long time, I’ve tried to fight the good fight. I tried to explain how to find facts. I’ve cautioned about the dangers of copy and pasting stuff you didn’t check yourself. I reminded folks that no one was giving away a free RV. I pointed out that online quizzes were really ways to get you to share details that should remain private. But it was nagging into a void. No one wants to hear it, least of all me anymore.

I find myself withdrawing from several social media platforms. A trend I’m going to continue. If I have a resolution this year, it’s to go 365 days without checking Facebook before brushing my teeth.

Instead, I’ll be scrolling through Zillow and pondering removing theoretical dining rooms to create huge kitchens with walk-in pantries. This may be a cry for help, sure, but you do self-care your way. I’ll do it mine.

Originally published in Monroe News, 2020

The post Zillow Addict appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Welcome to Middle Age

You may need to sit down for this. It’s official, though, skinny jeans are out. That’s right! If you wear skinny jeans these days, just admit it, you’re old and tragically unhip.

This would seem like a minor blip on the fashion radar, but it is causing many Millennials to lash out. They are visibly distressed and posting about it on TikTok. Millennials appear very attached to their skinny jeans.

To clarify, it’s Generation Z that has issued this decree to the Millennial generation that skinny jeans and also parting one’s hair on the side is old-fashioned. Both are repugnant remnants of the long-gone two-thousand teens.

A brief refresher, members of Generation X (me) were born from 1965 to 1980. The Millennial Generation is comprised of folks born from 1981 to 1996. Generation Z is anyone younger.

Millennials, this means a generation younger than you are old enough to buy alcohol. That hurts, I remember.

This year also marks the beginning of Millennials hitting their 40s. Hang on, I need to pause for a second to laugh hysterically. Okay, okay, I’m fine now.

Previously, Millennials were the youngest and hippest. They burst into the workforce in the early 2000s to let us know. But now, out of nowhere, Generation Z has informed Millennials that they look like dorks. 

As a member of Generation X, I’m obviously enjoying this comeuppance of the Millennials. Those pesky Millennials are the generation right below me, and they let me know it.

A Millennial co-worker, after I’d leased a new SUV, “Aren’t you supposed to be downsizing at your age?” Another snot-nosed Millennial once branded me a “cougar” because I was over forty and still groomed myself.

Of course, I got over it because, as a GenXer, I go about my biznaz and get back to work. That’s what GenXers do.

Imagine my surprise when I started to see how upset Millennials are over this skinny jean thing.

I’ve always hated skinny jeans. I like a good boyfriend cut or a bell bottom. But those have been out of style because Millennials preferred the skinny. And I look cute with a middle part, sorry, not sorry. Thank you very much, Generation Z!

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better for me, Generation Z has also decided dark circles are cool. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to conceal those little moons under my eyes.

Generation Z kids say let those dark circles shine! Some Gen Z beauty influencers are even ADDING dark circles! Hashtag, #normalizedarkcircles.

Oh, what a time to be alive.

It’s okay, you 40-old Millennials, or as some call you, the Elder Millennials. I’m here to prepare you for what’s going to happen. Soon, your new manager at work is going to gleefully declare that you’re as old as his mom.

As you travel deeper into your forties, you’ll be less relevant. By the time you hit 50, if you’re a woman, that is, you will be invisible.

The upside to invisibility, demographically speaking, is you can wear any darn thing you want. There is freedom and wisdom that come with the Caftan years.

I am free to rock a Forenza sweater backward with my acid-washed mini-skirt, white Keds, and cute anklets. There’s a host of things your generation told my generation to just stop doing, and would you look at that, it’s all cool again.

Thanks, Generation Z!

Welcome to middle age Elder Millennials! It’s rough, but it’s better than the alternative.

Originally Published in Monroe News

The post Welcome to Middle Age appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Gray AF

I'm a BIG advocate for letting your hair go gray. BUT only if it feels okay for you. We should all do our OWN things. I've written several columns on the subject. I've also compiled a great board on Pinterest if you need some inspiration.

Scared to Go Gray

Embracing Gray Hair

Gray Inspo on Pinterest

White Haired ModelYellow to White HairFully Transitioned to GrayBlonde to Gray

The post Gray AF appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Time to Embrace Gray Hair

In August, the women’s fashion magazine, Allure, vowed to stop using the word anti-aging.

The magazine’s editors declared that words matter and that the term anti-aging when it comes to fashion, beauty, or hair, leads to the idea that ageism, as a prejudice, is okay.

“Whether we know it or not, we’re subtly reinforcing the message that aging is a condition we need to battle — think antianxiety meds, antivirus software, or antifungal spray,” wrote an Allure editor announcing the decision.

They affirmed that women shouldn’t battle aging, because, well, you can’t.

It is a shift in thinking.

My consumption of fashion magazines has dropped considerably in recent years. I still like to look at pretty clothes, read about the latest trends, or discover who the heck Gigi Hadid is, but I don’t like the relentless message that I should camouflage, hide, or lie about my age.

Men receive praise when George Clooney salt and pepper show up in their hair, but women? Yank that out by the root!

Let me be clear, I want all women, and men to do anything they want to feel healthy. If hair color or Botox is your jam do it. I support you doing what you want. But no matter what you do, if you’re fighting a clock, you’re going to lose.

I’m not a rebel. However, lately I’m feeling rebellious, and this is manifesting itself on my head.

I wrote once about going gray that I was considering it. Well, the time for consideration is over. I’ve decided it. The bright blonde highlights that I’ve meticulously cultivated for a lifetime don’t feel like me anymore lately.

At my temples, there is a swatch of steel gray. Strands are also sprinkled throughout the rest of my head like tinsel. I’ve hidden this color because honestly, I loved my blonde hair. But somehow, I’m ready for something different.

It’s not a matter of giving up or “letting myself go.” But rather it’s the desire to be comfortable with whom I’m becoming. I’m not here to fight age; I’m here to say I am this age. I have strength, wisdom, value, and it took some time to get all those things. The gray hair is a part of all those qualities.

Over the next few months, years, you’ll see me get grayer and grayer. I’m out to prove that doesn’t mean I’m ready for a rocker but that I’m about to rock a whole new set of challenges.

And no, this does not mean I’ve decided to stop wearing makeup, exercising, or the occasional body shaper. It just means that right now, I want to show people that gray hair isn’t something you need to hide. A gray-haired woman will never be associated with accomplishment, or power, or considered distinguished if people never see a gray-haired woman. Or if the only time people see her is when she’s standing next to Mr. Claus.

My gray hair means I’m pro-aging. And you should be too because none of us are getting any younger.

Originally Published in Monroe News, 2017

White Haired ModelBlonde to GrayFully Transitioned to GrayYellow to White Hair

The post Time to Embrace Gray Hair appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Scared to Go Gray

I don't know a basic fact about myself.

I know my blood type and parentage, what I don't know, really know, is the color of my hair.

I know what color it used to be. A dark blonde.

It's been super blonde for a really long time. In the 1980s, I discovered Sun-In before my mom realized what happened and it was off to the races. I’ve been light blonde ever since. Other than that moment in college when my hair was red, black, and burgundy.

I’ve been wondering. What do I really look like under those highlights?

Recently I’ve been noticing the time between touch ups is stretching longer and longer. Maybe my hair finally complied and started turning light blonde on its own?

A close look at the mirror reveals that yes my hair is getting lighter. But not blonder. The stray gray hair of my thirties has turned into something more. The sprinkling has evolved to a dusting and now, I suspect, I’ve got a snow storm hidden under this sunny California color.

I was in the mall the other day and passed by a stranger who's hair struck me as beautiful. She was so chic. She'd let her hair go gray and almost white all over. I stood behind a display and stared at her for a moment. I found her fascinating. Her hair conveyed confidence and almost magic, and I had to tell her.

“Your hair is fantastic,” I told her.

“Really,” She asked and I nodded yes. “Thank you. I was scared at first.”

Am I scared to go gray?

My mother and grandmother both went gray young. My mom said that at first, yes, it is scary. She said it felt almost brave going gray. Not parachuting brave, but just a little flinty to have flinty hair.

My grandmother, who was undisputedly beautiful, also fussed about her white hair.

The worries a woman has about going gray are easy to list. Will we look old, weak, or tired? Certainly my mother and grandmother didn’t.

How would going gray impact my job? I work with a lot of twenty-year-olds. Honestly I don’t think they can tell the difference between forty or seventy. They probably think I’m seventy so who cares?

Would my bosses or potential employers think me too old to promote or listen to or hire? Maybe. But then again my boss is gray too.

So here’s the real gray area, there a difference between a gray haired woman and a gray-haired man. One is your grandma and one is your CEO.

These days going gray in a world filled with fillers, peels, surgery, and filters is almost an act of rebellion.

I am 47. The same age as Jennifer Aniston, Hugh Jackman, Owen Wilson, Gwen Stefani, and Will Smith. They’re not letting their gray show. And trust me, they have it. Maybe I better stay Stefani Blonde? She’s having a good year.

There’s a woman on Walking Dead, Melissa McBride, she’s gray. The hottest character on the show is in love with her and she kills zombies like a boss. A woman boss.

Maybe it’s time to go Melissa McBride Gray. Zombie killing gray.

Fully Transitioned to GrayBlonde to GrayYellow to White HairWhite Haired Model

Originally Published March 23, 2016 – Monroe News

The post Scared to Go Gray appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Life Lessons from a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle

Senior Picture, 1987

Recently, Consumer Reports and the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety teamed up to advise parents on the best cars to buy for a new teen driver. It got me thinking about my first car, the Volkswagen Beetle. Though it makes no “best of” lists, it was the perfect car for a sixteen-year-old me tooling around suburbia.

The history of the Volkswagen Beetle is weird. It went into production because Adolf Hitler wanted a cheap, simple car, mass-produced in Germany. Thus, the people’s car (literally Volkswagen in German) rolled off lines in 1938. Over 21 million cars, and eight decades later, the Volkswagen Beetle is the longest-running car of a single platform ever made.

After WWII, the production of the Beetle helped revive Germany’s economy. When the comic-looking car got the starring role in Disney’s “Herbie the Love Bug,” it turned the Beetle into a groovy way to get around in the late sixties and early seventies. Everyone fell in love with this puppy of a car.

Flash forward to the Big Eighties. I turned sixteen in 1985. My dad didn’t have the benefit of Internet lists back then, but he is “a car guy.” As luck would have it, my uncle’s hobby was restoring vintage Volkswagen Beetles, and he had one, ready to roll. That’s how a 1973 Powder Blue Volkswagen Super Beetle entered my “Big Eighties” high school life.

In 1985, not much from 1973 was considered cool. While I wouldn’t have been caught dead in bell-bottoms or a center part, I was happy to drive to the mall in my groovy car. It matched my eyeshadow. I will never forget the feeling of driving that Bug, by myself, for the first time. Freedom! I could go to Taco Bell By. My. Self!

I learned a lot from that car. It had a terrible radio, so my dad installed a cassette player. Cassettes never skipped, you could make them yourself, and you did not need to be MacGyver to fix one—just hand me a pencil. I learned futzing with your radio instead of keeping your eyes on the road is a good way to get pulled over by the police. “I was trying to find my station, officer.”

I also learned how to drive a stick shift. The benefits of a manual transmission are underrated. A stick shift ensured I couldn’t do something else while driving. Believe me, I tried to apply fifty layers of Cover Girl Marathon Mascara while behind the wheel, but there just wasn’t time between shifting gears. Texting back then involved elaborately folded notebook paper and a basic knowledge of origami, but even if there were cell phones, you thankfully couldn’t text, shift, and drive.

You could not speed in that thing. Anytime I attempted to accelerate over fifty miles an hour, the car shook like it was re-entering Earth’s atmosphere from outer space (She’s breaking up, she’s breaking up!). It meant I learned to leave early enough that 45-miles-an-hour would get me there on time.

The vents pumped heat in the summer and cold air in the winter. I kept a wool blanket in the car. This was another lesson for a young driver. To this day, I still keep supplies in my car for winter weather emergencies, thanks to that Bug.

I can push start a Volkswagen Bug from a dead stall. If I hadn’t learned that, I’d still be clogging up traffic, late to first-hour sophomore English class. This knowledge hasn’t come in handy since the eighties, but I have it, ready to roll, in case.

The funky little Bug didn’t have airbags, it barely had a seat belt, but it made up for that by having a cigarette lighter! In a rainstorm, water gushed in through the floor. The life lesson here, be wary of flooded roads. That puddle could be a lake.

Whenever I see a classic Bug, I am transported back to that time, when my biggest problems were waterproof mascara and getting to first-hour English on time.

The 1973 VW Bug wouldn’t make any lists for a great first car, but it was. And now, if you ever need a push start, you know who to call.

First Published in The Extra Mile

The post Life Lessons from a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Creative Advice for a Sweet Valentine

Flowers? Candy? Dinner? A mushy card? Maybe a heartfelt Facebook post? The available options for celebrating love on Valentine’s Day are endless.

As a wife of over thirty years, I shall show my devotion by loading the dishwasher the way my husband likes it done. Nothing I could say or buy could better express my love for my husband. My love language this year will be this act of service. I can almost hear the love songs being written about it.

My husband and I are on the same page in many areas. We are in step with one another in matters of church and state. We both believe The Christmas Story is the best Christmas movie, we share a love of reading, and we both like our children.

But we’re not sympathetic on all things, and in many ways, we are opposites.

He is a master of self-discipline, prefers to stick to a regimented schedule, and uses Miracle Whip on turkey sandwiches. In contrast, I am distracted by shiny things, am prone to random naps, and know that mayo goes on turkey…duh.

Our opposing natures are most pronounced when it comes to loading the dishwasher. He says my style of loading a dishwasher is rooted in malevolent chaos, and his is “the correct way.” In this area of life, in his eyes, I am more deranged wild animal than human. Every time we clear the dinner dishes, the poor man is forced to contend with my tornado-like loading style.

When one decides to marry, it is prudent to consider many factors. You and your future spouse should discuss religion, politics, finances, thermostat temperature preference, and your respective stances on oatmeal cookies. Put all your cards out on the table before you consider saying “I do,” or you’ll be arguing whether oatmeal cookies are, in fact, cookies or are a form of aggression in the shape of a cookie for the rest of your life. (I’m anti-oatmeal cookie, he is irrationally pro-oatmeal cookie.)

When we dated, not once in seven years of pre-wedded bliss did the topic of how to load a dishwasher rear its ugly head. It wasn’t until after we’d opened a joint checking account and divvied up the closet space (7/8ths to me, 1/8th to him) that we realized dishwasher loading was an issue. And by issue, I mean each thinks the other’s method is psychotic.

My husband loads the dishwasher with military precision. The bowls are in one row, the plates are in order of size in the next row, cups are up top, and each item is in its place.

I like to call my method artistic. I let the dirty dish go where it feels like it wants to go. My main thought process for putting a dish in the dishwasher is that I don’t have to hand wash it, and I can’t see it anymore. Out of sight, out of mind, in my book.

I am the manic pixie dream girl of dishwasher loading. I’m a middle-aged version of Zoey Deschanel. Bowls can go on the top rack! It’s fun for them! Forks and knives in the same section of the silverware basket? You betcha. It’s 2022. All manner of silverware can do what it wants behind the closed dishwasher door. Maybe I’ll put the Instant Pot lid in the dishwasher because I’m a wild woman.

My husband does not appreciate my art.

This Valentine’s Day, I am loading the dishwasher his way to show my love. I’ll line up the bowls, array the plates on the bottom rack in descending order of size, and face everything towards the star of the show, the water sprayer.

My exasperated husband has often asked me how I expect dishes that don’t face the water sprayer to get clean? Instead of answering him, cold turkey, I shall load the dishes like a responsible adult. Cups meticulously positioned on the top rack and silverware segregated.

I know my long-suffering hubs will appreciate my Valentine gesture, and in return, will bring me flowers and unload the dishwasher. Because there is no better way to woo your wife than unloading the dishwasher once a year.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Originally published in The Extra Mile

The post Creative Advice for a Sweet Valentine appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

Joanna Gaines and Me

Yes THEE Joanna Gaines liked my column one time. Here's the column, which ran in 2016 originally. I mean if she likes it YOU WILL TOO!

Every so often a show on HGTV gets me hooked. I’ve written about “Beachfront Bargain Hunt” and a few others.

With these shows there’s not really a host. There’s a faceless narrator saying things like, “Will the Hendersons choose the Cul-de-Sac New Construction, the Suburban Oasis or the Retro Ranch?”

Then along comes “Fixer Upper” with Chip and Joanna Gaines. As the opening of the show states, the duo, based in Waco, Texas, takes the worst home in the best neighborhood and fixes it up. Chip and Joanna make me want every single house they fixer up.

The show is a runaway hit, breaking viewership records for HGTV because Joanna Gaines is a Pinterest board come to life and Chip does whatever his wife wants, while smiling. To borrow a slogan from another show, I want to believe …

Joanna is a tiny brunette with an edgy fashion sense and Chip is a big ol’ country boy blond with phasers set to goofy at all times. Every outfit Joanna wears screams mom cool. The children these two have produced almost hurt my eyes with their combined magnified cuteness.

This Pinterest-come-to-life show leaves me wide-eyed after every renovation. How in the heck did they turn a shack with raccoons in the floorboards into spacious, high-end Texas Chic Ranch? That rusted metal shed is now a 3,000-square-foot palace. The answer, of course, is that the clients spend six figures a pop. But let’s not go there, it spoils my fun.

Chip and Joanna remove walls, popcorn ceiling and old cabinets with a wink and a kiss.

In real life, house renovation with your husband is usually a crime scene. My husband and I almost ripped each other’s throats out trying to install a dimmer switch. Wall removal? It’s always load bearing with critical wiring and duct work hidden inside. Always.

The family aspect of the show is just as addictive. They have a farm with baby animals. She bakes, gardens and has a cute shop where she sells cute things. I can’t get enough.

Chip and Joanna Gaines have rusty-nailed down an industrial farmhouse style in the same way Martha Stewart made us all covet New England style in the 1990s. If I don’t find shiplap under some of this boring drywall I might die. If Joanna likes it, I must have it!

But I do have questions. They have an HGTV show, a store, a bed and breakfast and a line of furniture. They have four kids and a thousand animals. Where is the nanny? Who is helping them? In the name of wide-planked wood floors, can we see at least a little of that?

If you have four kids, a farm and a business there’s going to be chaos. Where’s the vomit? Where’s the poo? Where’s the scene when the teacher looks at Joanna with scorn because she’s late to Muffins with Moms due to the fact she’s building a friggin’ empire? Yah know?

I just want a little vomit with my shiplap.

Who am I kidding? They’d probably make that look cute, too.

Magnolia Network Hot TakesUpdate a Nineties Bathroom

The post Joanna Gaines and Me appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.

A Journey of Packing

Whether it’s work travel or vacation travel, packing a suitcase is a major process. For me, it’s an emotional journey that can include denial, anger, bargaining, and acceptance. This is true whether I am packing for myself or supervising the family luggage stuffing.

My process begins by laundering every item of clothing in the house. I have two reasons: One, even if I’m going to Florida, it might snow, so all the scarves we own must been clean and folded. Two, if someone breaks into my closet while I’m gone, I want them to think I’m tidy. It’s important I make a good impression on burglars bent on stealing my 7-year-old Target brand yoga pants.

The next step of the process is to purchase shorts. The older I get, the more traumatic purchasing shorts has become. Shorts are never in stock when you need them. They’re always on the racks three months before you need them. How does one know what size they’ll be in three months? I never do. I also purchase footie socks, travel-sized toiletries, and zippered plastic bags.

Aftera few weeks, I have a pile of things to pack that endures I’m prepared foreverything from a rainy day to walking the red carpet at the Oscars.

Nomatter the trip, business, or pleasure, I always have a wrinkle-free dress, fivestyles of black sweater, and workout shoes since the hotel has a gym. (Denial!)I also have a lot of underwear ready because what if I’m gone for five years?

OnceI’ve determined the correct shorts, ball gowns, jeans, and flip-flops for everyoccasion, I try to cram it all into the suitcase. This occurs the day I depart.It always goes very badly. (Anger!)

We’vereached the part of the process where I dump the entire contents of the suitcaseonto my bed and start again. Here’s when serious emotional work begins. (Bargaining!)I hate every pair of jeans I’ve owned since 1991. Bringing three pairs ofabusive jeans on vacation seems self-sabotaging. I also remind myself that atrip to the Oscars isn’t on the itinerary, so I don’t need the formal wear I’veinexplicably included. (Acceptance!)

Afterseveral panicky hours, I cull it down to three black sweaters, one pair ofjeans I hate, a pair of shorts, a white shirt, a black dress, and flip flops(black.) And, of course, 27 pairs of underwear just in case there’s not aTarget where we’re going, and twenty-six pairs explode en route to ourdestination.

Onlythen can I start panicking about my kid’s questionable decision-making.

Thisrecent article from AAA has twelvegreat suggestions. Both AAA experts and experienced moms agree that a list is amust if you don’t want to forget anything.

Whenit comes to packing for the kids, I’ve tried to teach them to pack instead ofpacking for them. I hate to hover. Especially since I’m in the midst of my ownjourney of self-discovery through casual wear. I laundered all their clothes.What more must a mother do?

Okay,well, probably a lot more. My mom friends weighed in with some good ideas:

For those long road trips, pack the kid clothes in squarelaundry baskets. The baskets stack in the van, and if you’re doing laundry onvacation, the clothes go right back in the basket.Consider rolling clothes instead of folding to maximize space. Ican personally attest to the brilliance of vacuum packing the clothes. (It’sthe only way I can bring all those black sweaters.)Another mom advises telling the kids that the departure time is threehours earlier than it actually is to eliminate that last-minute rush and drama.This is especially useful if you’re trying to get to an airport.

Keepin mind that the universe likes balance. This means that if you’ve packed yourselffour times the number of underwear needed for a week’s vacation, your kids willbring exactly zero underwear. But they will pack every device charger known to man.They may have to wear a charger instead of boxers if you don’t check on that,at least.

Well,unless there’s a Target where you’re going.

Originally Published in The Extra Mile

@rebeccaregnier Packing tips. Want more? Click my bio for the full #column #columnist #packing #travelhumor #writer #authortok #writer #bombecktok ♬ original sound – Rebecca Regnier

The post A Journey of Packing appeared first on Rebecca Regnier.