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We found 10 result(s) that match your search "dining":

Some of you may find this strange, but I typically travel with diet soda.

 

I should say that I don't load up the car each morning on my way to work (although I do consume one can on the drive in), but whenever we are going to visit a friend or family member, I bring some soda.

 

What I usually do is stop by the store, pick up several bottles or 12 packs, and take one in with me when I get to the destination. That way, if they all get consumed, I know I have more in the car as backup.  And there are no uncomfortable moments when I am leaving if it's not all consumed - I take the leftovers with me.

 

I have a few friends who always tell me: "George, I know you are coming so I always get diet for you!" 

 

To which I reply: "Great! I will drink yours first and take this home!" 

 

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I am sitting at the dining room table. Two pieces of cake sit in front of me, in the glass cake holder my mother bought for me. They look amazing, those slabs of cake, with their white frosting and their devil's food cake-i-ness poking through. I stab at the grilled chicken salad with peppers and onions and slivers of carrots on my plate. The salad, which just a few moments earlier had looked so delicious. Now it just seemed pale and loose and green in the shadow of the cake. In the shadow of the devil.
I say, out loud, "Well, just one piece can't be too bad. I mean, I have just had this salad for dinner. And I've barely touched it." (READ MORE)

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Since becoming a "Weight Watcher," I have noticed the amount of stress in my life has increased. Having diabetes means I carry around a bunch of stuff with me where ever I go. I have my Glucose testing machine, strips, lancets, glucose tabs, and not to mention my carb counting book.
And now I have to add my Dining Out Guide which gives me the point values to restaurant food, my sliding scale for figuring point values, my tracker which I log my points in, and the Food Guide that has point values for all kinds of foods. So you see, I have more stuff to remember these days then I did before. (READ MORE)

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"Is that what you're having for dinner?" my husband wanted to know.
I had prepared 1/2 lb. of lean hamburger with taco seasoning and put it on the dining room table with sour cream, sliced tomatoes, shredded cojack cheese and taco shells. The kids were eating, my husband was eating. After getting everyone settled, I stood in the kitchen and injected my dinner-time dose of Byetta and swallowed the Metformin.
After nearly a month, I was starting to feel the effects of Byetta. Namely, my appetite had dramatically decreased.
My husband looked shocked that I sat down at the table with half of a very small bag of baby carrots, a small dish of ranch dressing and a glass of water.
"Yes," I told him. "There's not that much taco meat and I'm not really that hungry anyway."
"You should have a taco," he pleaded. (READ MORE)

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It's not like we're pressuring Charlie to begin testing himself. Whenever he is ready to take on that responsibility is fine with us.  But it honestly seems like it's never going to happen. He has no desire to take the reins. I remember feeling the same way when we went through potty training with him. It took forever.

 

I figured he'd be 18 years old, on his back in the living room – legs up in the air - holding moist baby wipes and rash ointment while a girl named Amanda waited in the dining room dressed in cap and gown, flicking cigarette ash into a paper cup. "Mom! C'mon! Are you gonna change my diaper or what!!! We're gonna miss graduation!"

 

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"This," I said to my mom while pointing to the table full of mid-afternoon party food, "is exactly the kind of situation where I would really benefit from having a pump."
We were in my brother's dining room at his daughter's first-birthday party. The spread included crackers with an amazing cream cheese and pesto dip, mini chicken salad croissant sandwiches, fresh fruit, potato chips and dip and fresh veggies. To the untrained eye, there wasn't much that I should have stayed away from, but in reality there was just about nothing that didn't require insulin.
Mom looked a little confused. "But you'd still have to count carbs," she said.
"Well, yeah, of course," I said. "But that's not really the reason the pump would be so beneficial. I could eat and not have to excuse myself to take a shot."
She nodded in understanding. (READ MORE)

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When it comes to sitting down to eat a meal, I've always been a bit of a shoveler. Growing up we ate in front of the TV and we still do from time to time. I'm embarrassed to admit I usually go in for seconds too. Sometimes, if I'm eating something particularly tasty, I'll start planning my second bowlful before I'm even halfway finished with my first round.
So trying Paul McKenna's concept of eating conciously has been a bit of an eye opener. What really convinced me to give it a go is when he explained how many of us spend so much time thinking about food yet so little time eating it. It's true. I spend a lot of time thinking about food, planning meals, craving things I won't allow myself, etc. But when it comes time to sit down to eat, I shovel it in so fast I barely taste it. (READ MORE)

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I break open a new bag of shelled roasted peanuts and set out two paper plates on the dining room table.
I crack a few to set the mood.
"Charlie! Come here!"
"Why?" he yells from the living room, transfixed on a preview for the Transformers movie.
"Please. I want to talk to you."
He roars around the corner with trigger-happy fingertip machine guns that drop me dead in my plate of peanuts.
"Ooh, peanuts! Can I crush 'em?" he says excitedly.
"Of course, that's what they're here for. Please, crush away."
Charlie has no interest in eating the peanuts, but man does he love smashing them open. Loves it.
"Is that a new haircut, Charlie? My, you're looking handsome today."
"No? (READ MORE)

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Early fall wind blew threw the house as No. 1 and I sat at the dining room table. He was doing homework and I was keeping him company while going through the mail. The girls were alternatingly reading to each other and turning the TV up so blaringly loud that even No. 1 started to scold them like a parent.
Between writing spelling words and their definitions, No. 1 said, "Dinner smells good, Mom."
"Yeah, it really does," I said, thinking I should check the timer on the chicken I had baking in the oven.
It was a Wednesday evening and the fourth day in a row that I had made dinner instead of saying I was too hot, too tired, too annoyed or too lazy to do so and taking the family out for dinner. It had recently occurred to me that we didn't eat out nearly as often when No. 1 and No. 2 were toddlers as we seem to now that No. 3 is a toddler. I hated realizing that. (READ MORE)

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After a very long day at work and a difficult drive home, I walked into my house and announced that I was home but going to take nap. I marched into my room, dropped my bag at the end of the bed and hit the hay.
My journey into the land of dreams was almost immediate it seemed because no sooner did I close my eyes that I was woke up in a dark room covered in sweat. I had kicked the blankets off and was trying to muster up the energy to sit up.
I could not do it. I heard footsteps around the house. Waiting for those footsteps to get close to my door so I could moan loud enough for someone to come in seemed like an eternity. And still I had no energy. I could hear my wife on the phone talking in what I thought was the dining room and my daughter listening to the Grease soundtrack in her room. (READ MORE)

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