Friday, December 30, 2011

"High-Def Television" Killed the Radio Star

Last Christmas, our furnace broke down, and we felt that it was necessary to replace it right away. This Christmas, our TV broke down, and we felt that it was necessary to replace it right away. What kind of world do we live in when a furnace and a television hold equal sway in our livelihood?

In my defense, I thought we could go TV-less for a while. I imagined a utopia of orange and violet butterflies fluttering around my head, soft grocery store music in the background, where I spent my time reading, writing, and playing Quiddler and Boggle with my husband.

But Dan, the husband with whom I had envisioned spirited rounds of Phase 10, practically rejoiced when the TV bit the dust. He has wanted a new television for a long time now. But our old school 25-inch model was suiting us just fine, a television not being a necessity anyway. Plus the technological industry makes its money through the use of conflict minerals and unfair labor practices (just an example of the guilt-ridden editorializing I would throw Dan's way whenever he talked about wanting a newer, better TV).

For the past few months, our television had been rattling every time we turned it on.

"It's just cold. It needs to warm up - like a car," I would say.

Then it started humming in the middle of our television programs.

"It still works," I would say, cranking up the volume to its maximum level.

The day after Christmas, Dan called me into the living room.

"I think we need a new TV," he said.

I blinked my eyes to make sure I wasn't seeing double. The images were superimposed on top of one other, creating a rather colorful, psychedelic effect.

"Are you sure your video game's not 3-D?" I asked.

"It's giving me a headache," Dan said.

"Maybe we had better think about getting a new TV," I finally relented.

"Yes!" Dan exclaimed as though this was a century-long desire being realized at last.

So Dan set to researching high-definition televisions - "I'm an engineer. You know I have to weigh all my options" - which gave me an entire TV-free evening to read my dystopian novel about an impersonal, relationship-starved society created by technological advances.

He scrolled through web pages filled with tech-geek knowledge that looked as though it was written in a different language. He pulled out his tape measure and examined our entertainment center and current television. Then he compared the various lengths of the several HDTVs that had caught his eye on the tech-geek-o-sphere.

He returned to the sofa and sat down wearily.

"This research is overwhelming."

"I can help you if you want," I offered, half-hoping he would not take me up on it.

"If I need your input, I'll ask for it," he said. Then he quickly recovered with, "I mean, most of what overwhelms me won't make a difference to you. You'll just say 'That doesn't matter.'"

"True."

That evening, an enthusiastic Dan looked up from his laptop and cried, "I think I found one!"

Apparently ready for my "input," he made me watch a video review of the HDTV in question, most of which I didn't understand. One of the package deals included a Blu-ray player, while another included "Smart TV Apps" - "Like a smart phone on your TV," Dan explained. This particular HDTV came with about 152 remote controls. One of the controllers, the "Magic Motion Remote," worked like a Wii remote but with a much cooler name. And it came with 3-D glasses. This cutting edge technology was demonstrated by the reviewer who proceeded to place a pair over his own glasses and stare at the HDTV screen in front of him.

"Don't laugh at the nerd!" Dan admonished as I started to giggle.

He ordered the TV online, and, since it was in stock, the store e-mailed him later that day. The television was ready to be picked up.

"You didn't even have to talk to a sales person."

"I know. That's awesome," Dan said.

Dan, too excited to wait until I finished my post-Christmas ritual of writing thank you notes, took off for the store by himself, lugging our old TV out the door. A while later, he burst back into the living room.

"I'm here with our new Christmas present! I hope a 47-inch monitor isn't too big."

As I mentioned earlier, this TV included 3-D glasses. But the store was running a special, an additional six free pairs of 3-D glasses with the purchase of an HDTV. Dan couldn't resist. (We now own eight pairs of 3-D glasses.)

"I don't even like 3-D. It gives me seizures," I said, cranky due either to a sense of guilt caused by greedy consumerism or because I was getting hungry.

"Do you just come up with silly stuff to say so you can put it in your blog?"

He started to babble about a new cable for the Wii called a component video cable, with red, blue, and green components, three jacks for video, and two for audio. He told me that he bought an HDMI cable instead of S-Video cable, only one little plug for all of our video and audio needs . . .

"Pretty cool, huh?" he said when he came up for breath. "It does Ethernet too."

"Okay, I officially don't understand a single thing you just said," I admitted.

The other morning, I walked into our living room and found Dan using the TouchPad while the television played in background.

"Is this how it's going to be now? The new TV looks so good that we have to have it on 24/7 even though no one's watching? Or do you just really like Kelly Rippa?"

Dan reached for one of the 152 remote controls.

"The newness will wear off soon," he assured me.

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan

Check out more of my work in:

Saturday, December 24, 2011

A Sweet Story Just in Time for Christmas

As I sat in my hotel room, a clear view of the Sun Valley Resort and Village below me, my husband snowboarding at River Run providing me a with much-needed writer's retreat, I fully intended to write a sappy, sentimental treatise on the reality of Santa Claus, not unlike "Yes, Mrs. Duggan, There is a Santa Claus" which I wrote about two years ago.

But then I got hungry and ventured into the village in search of lunch. Anyone who knows me knows that it is virtually impossible for me to be inspirational on an empty stomach.

On my way to pick up a sandwich, I took a detour into a nearby gift shop to look at earrings and ornaments. While perusing the jewelry selection, I overheard a young girl, probably around ten or eleven, ask the clerk what she could buy for four dollars. Apparently, her father had given her some money to spend at the Chocolate Foundry, and she had decided to spend the money on a Christmas gift for her father instead.

Before I continue, let me outline my past experiences with child tourists in Sun Valley. Most of the people who vacation at this resort are very wealthy and feel quite entitled to allow their children to run wild without consequence. During my stays in Sun Valley, I have had children slam into me without so much as an apology. I have heard children whining and crying over the most superficial, overpriced products known to the consumer market. One year, I sat in the Warm Springs Lodge, writing while Dan snowboarded, only to have objects thrown at me by a couple of self-absorbed teenagers.

"Did you just throw something?" a worker confronted the two girls as something whizzed past my ear.

One of the girls snorted while the other clenched her jaw defiantly, "No," they answered in unison.

I rolled my eyes and nodded at the worker who shrugged helplessly and left the two adolescents to continue their annoying game.

So, to hear this girl politely ask for help in finding a four-dollar gift for her father, money that her father thought she was spending on herself, piqued my curiosity. She settled on a small item and dug into her pocket, coming up with three dollars instead of four.

"I guess he only gave me three dollars. It's too much," the little girl said as she picked up her money and started to turn from the clerk.

I was about ready to cover the cost myself when I heard the clerk say, "Wait, I think there is a discount," she punched some numbers into her cash register. " Ah, yes. It's actually only $2.88."

The little girl paid for the gift and left the store with an innocent, "Thank you."

"That was really nice of you," I said to the clerk.

"Sometimes, you just have to give back, you know?"

"Well, it's nice to see that in action."

I left the gift shop, a gift shop situated in the middle of one of the most affluent resort towns in the Northwest, my faith in humanity partially restored this Christmas season by a young tourist and a store cashier.

I didn't even care that, as I made my way back to my hotel room, I had to step on two little rich kids who had draped themselves over the inn stairs while waiting for their parents. In fact, as I smiled at them and chuckled a little to myself, one of them actually mumbled, "Sorry."

Okay, I'll take that for now. Just don't throw anything at me, rich kids.

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan

Check out more of my work in:

It would make a terrific Christmas gift!

Saturday, December 10, 2011

The Spirit of Christmas and Caffeine

My husband takes me out on a coffee date after church every Sunday. Quite often, it's about the only way he can con me into going to church. Now some avid church-goers and super duper Christians may be offended by my ambivalence toward attending church every single Sunday. But I'll unabashedly admit that after a week of working with 650+ kids, teaching ten classes a day, putting on programs every few weeks, conducting a 60-member children's choir, performing in or rehearsing for whatever project I may have going on at the time, sometimes the last thing I want to do is spend yet another day surrounded by people. So Dan bribes me with caffeine.

Because our service ends by 9:30, our coffee date is usually early enough in the day that we spend it with church avoiders and non-church goers, so the former preacher's kid in me feels slightly and delightfully heathen-ish.

Last week, we didn't go to our regular Tully's haunt where the two baristas make our typical fare as soon as they see us walk in the door. We had to run an errand near a Starbucks, an easy feat since there is a Starbucks on every corner as the saying goes.

As we arrived at the coffee shop, Dan tried to pull into a parking spot but another car darted in front of us from the other direction. Dan may have grumbled a bit under his breath, but I was too busy daydreaming about which holiday drink I would try that day. (Come on, coffee drinkers, you know you mourn the loss of your Pumpkin Spice Lattes and Peppermint Mochas at the end of the season.)

As we entered the busy shop, Dan muttered, "Now I remember why I like Tully's better. Less people."

The gentleman standing in line ahead of us turned around.

"Did I just steal your spot out there?" he asked.

It took me a minute to register to what he was referring. He was the one who had pulled into the parking spot in front of Dan.

"No, it was fine."

"I hate it when people drive like a**holes. And then to think I just did that. I'm really sorry."

"That's okay. Just the fact that you're so conscientious about it proves that you're not an 'a**hole,'" I said.

The woman with him in line laughed, "No, he still is."

"Anyway, it's no problem," I told them. "We didn't think anything about it."

"Well, I'm really sorry," he said again.

A couple of minutes later, while Dan and I were ordering our drinks, the gentleman who called himself an "a**hole" handed the barista a gift card and said, "Would you put this toward these guys' order? Thanks!" And he hurried away before Dan and I could thank him.

I started to wonder, as I watched the man and woman speed away, if I - the reluctant church-goer - would have admitted that I was in a car that had cut someone off, much less pay the person's coffee bill, had the situation been reversed. Then I wondered - not without cynicism - whether any of those often maniacal drivers who so proudly display Christian fishes on their back bumpers would have done the same thing.

"Did you just get an anonymous donation?" a customer asked us as we waited at the counter for our coffee.

"I think we did."

"That was a nice Christmas gift," the man said.

"Yeah, it was."

Now, we could have afforded our own coffee, and a latte is probably the most superfluous and overpriced product in the world; but every once in a while it encourages my faith in humanity to be on the receiving end of a little Christmas charity.

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan

Check out more of my work in:

Thursday, November 24, 2011

The Great Pumpkin Fiasco That Could Have Been

"What, no pie!" cried my husband Dan.

I had just informed him that we would not be having pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. Emmy, my father's wife, thought my contribution of Hello Dolly Cookie Bars would be sufficient in the dessert category.

"I always eat at least five or six pieces on Thanksgiving," he continued.

Let me remind you, faithful readers, that Dan is five-foot-ten and 135 pounds (dripping wet).

I e-mailed Emmy to tell her that she and I had been vetoed. I would bring Hello Dollies and a pumpkin pie.

I had a nice-sized pumpkin in my kitchen. I decided I would cook pumpkin pie for the first time with real pumpkin instead of with my old stand-by - canned pumpkin. And then I would blog about what it's like for a not-very-domestic, semi-unskilled cook to bake a pumpkin pie from an actual pumpkin. I was sure it would prove to be hilarious. I could write about being grossed out by the stringy stuff that resembled brain dendrites or about attempting to toast the seeds and instead almost burning down my kitchen (which could easily have happened).

I cut out articles in my cooking magazines. (Even though I am a semi-unskilled cook, I still like to look at pictures of food.) I looked up "how to cook pumpkin" on the Internet. And I bought a can of pumpkin just in case my foray into cooking with real pumpkin went horribly wrong. That way, Dan would still be able to happily eat his annual five or six pieces of pie.

It was soon after my extensive research efforts that I discovered my fresh pumpkin had gone bad. Its bottom was squishy and moldy, even though the rest of our winter squash was still okay. Thinking I could still salvage my awesome blog topic, I went to the grocery in search of the last of the orange fall vegetable. I returned to my kitchen empty-handed. Apparently, pumpkins go bad earlier than other types of squash. I mentally kicked myself for not having pureed and frozen the fresh pumpkin earlier in the season.

So I used canned pumpkin after all, resulting in this not-so-awesome blogging attempt. I did add a little toasted coconut to the top of the pie, a unique twist to my typical made-from-the-can fare.

I could have attempted homemade crust; that would have probably resulted in tragedy and made for good blog material. Even my crusts-from-the-box baking is sketchy at best. During this latest endeavor, some of the crust broke off as I removed it from the oven, the edges shrunk and cracked more than I would have liked, and it looked a little browner than the beautiful, golden, flaky pictures on the box. In fact, I am looking at my pie right now and am slightly embarrassed at the sight of the crust.

"You can just break the edges off all the way around," Dan suggested. I should mention that he had preceded this statement with "It smells good in here," as he walked in the door from work.

"I already did that, kind of."

"We'll just tell them the crust broke off in the car. It probably would anyway on the two-hour drive," he said.

Then he reached for a Hello Dolly as I simultaneously slapped (I suppose "love-patted" would be a better way of saying it) his hand away.

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan

Check out more of my work in:

Saturday, November 19, 2011

My Yankee Doodle Dandy Kids

I recently conducted the annual Veterans Day program at my elementary school. For about two months, I prepped my students. I taught patriotic song after patriotic song, trying to feign pride in a country with which, frankly, I have become more and more disillusioned, especially in regards to the wars America has "mongered" in recent years.

"Actually, the day is about the need for peace in our world and about those individuals who have made it possible for us to have a measure of peace, however imperfect it might be. Veterans Day is about honoring those who have expended themselves in time, energy, and blood for us," my father so eloquently wrote in an e-mail a few weeks ago.

So, I focused on the individuals, rather than on our government's foreign policy. And I discovered that Veterans Day hits very close to home with my students these days. Many of my students have family members - fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles - who have just returned from or are currently fighting overseas. In our audience alone on 11/11/11, we had veterans in attendance who had fought in World War II, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

My 3rd and 4th grade performers hailed from all over the globe as well - India, Africa, the Middle East, Myanmar, Thailand.

"That is a good song!" one of my little girls from Africa exclaimed after singing "This Land is Your Land" one morning.

I found it prophetic that she would choose a song (that began as a slightly socialist anthem) that talked about providing a place for all people to live in equality as her favorite.

"My favorite is 'I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy,'" I overheard one of my little boys from India tell his ELL teacher. And then he started to sing, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again . . ."

"When I watch my class sing, I keep wondering 'Which one of you is the Yankee Doodle Dandy?'" one of the third grade teachers told me, referring to the number of refugees and English-As-A-Second-Language students in her class. "And that's their favorite song!"

Though many of the 180 kids in my Veterans program were not "Yankees" by birth, by the end of that afternoon, they had truly become proud Americans, "however imperfect" they might later discover America to be. They filed onto the risers, clad in red, white, and blue, and sang their hearts out. They watched in reverence as the veterans stood and accepted thank you notes from one of the fourth grade helpers. They saluted the audience with gusto during the final song. Wasn't this the definition of "Yankee-hood," the essence of "The New Colossus?"

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

"All those kids, they sang to us," one of the World War II veterans said to me afterward, tears in his eyes. "It was beautiful."

And it was. It was yet again a case of the students teaching the (jaded, cynical, disillusioned) music teacher.

Or, as I like to say to my kiddos from time to time, "The student has now become the master!"

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan

Check out more of my work in:

Friday, November 04, 2011

The Halloween Candy Dilemma

As my husband and I prepared for Halloween, I was consumed with a nagging sense of guilt that had been festering over the last few years.

My students get almost more excited about Halloween than they do about Christmas, all that frenzy over a pillowcase full of free sugar. On top of that, on Fridays at my school, the kids can buy popcorn, Popsicles, and - on special occasions - cotton candy. This year, the "special occasion" happened to fall on the Friday before Halloween - as if they weren't going to be eating enough junk already.

Of course, I suppose I contribute to this problem. I have a couple packages of Dum Dums and Smarties (notice the cute juxtaposition) hidden in my classroom for students who help me move instruments or risers around.

Our school also sponsors a special trick-or-treat night where the kids can parade through the school, after hours, in their costumes, while the teachers stand in front of their classrooms and pass out candy. It actually makes for a fun evening, and it's a great excuse to see the kids in their Halloween best. But it also means kids get two nights of trick-or-treating or, in other words, double the candy.

I started to reevaluate my feelings about handing out candy on Halloween. Plus, I was not happy with the Hershey Corporation's recent use of foreign student slave labor. How could Dan and I promote a healthy lifestyle and be socially responsible on Halloween, the sugariest night of the year?

On Cotton Candy/Popcorn Friday, I discussed my misgivings with my co-workers in the faculty room. One teacher said that she and her husband give their grandkids graham crackers and a couple of pieces of candy. Another teacher said that she buys playing or trading cards at Costco as alternatives to sweets.

"I'm thinking about handing out apples and toothbrushes this year," I lied, knowing I would never have the guts to do that.

“That's a good way to get your house egged," said one of the student teachers.

Dan and I had just watched a TV show the night before where one of the characters decided to give full-size candy bars to the trick-or-treaters.

“I’m going to be the hero of the neighborhood,” the guy announced proudly, accompanied by a laugh track. Dan and I - sheepishly - shared that sentiment.

We didn't want to be the uncool, granola neighbors. I had heard my students talk about those people.

"Oh, you're that house," one of my former students said when I told her I had considered handing out fruit this year. "Some hippie lady gave us organic chocolate, and it's disgusting."

"One lady said she ran out of candy so she gave me an apple instead," another student once told me disdainfully.

So, Dan and I found ourselves at the grocery store staring at shelf after shelf of chocolate gluttony.

"We could get sugar-free candy,” Dan suggested half-heartedly.

"That's almost as bad as giving them dental floss."

"It's kind of the parents' job to monitor how much candy their kids eat."

With that part of my conundrum rationalized, we took up the daunting task of deciding what kind of candy to buy. As I said earlier, we were boycotting Hershey this Halloween. Dan also said he had heard socially irresponsible things about Nestle.

"I don't know about Mars. It's probably just as bad," Dan said.

"Well, ignorance is bliss, I guess."

(And yes, I discovered later, Mars Incorporated has had similar labor/fair practice issues in the past. It is supposedly taking steps to rectify this, not that my expectations are all that high.)

Then we had to decide how many bags to buy. The big bags were 30 cents per ounce, and the small bags were 20 cents per ounce.

"I'm not spending that much on these weirdo kids just so they can have free candy and get diabetes," I said, reaching for the small bags. "No more than one - two pieces max."

"It's okay if we have leftovers," Dan hinted.

"Yeah, we can just eat it all to keep the kids from making bad nutritional choices."

It took the first little Woody from Toy Story ringing our doorbell - "Twick ow Tweat!" - to make me forget about my aversion toward the candy industry.

"You want a piece of candy? Here, take four or five!"

We ended up running to the store and buying two more bags.

At school the next day, one of my fourth graders brought me an apple. She was only the second student to bring me an apple in my ten years of teaching. Did she really love me, her wonderful music teacher? Or did she just make the mistake of trick-or-treating at the neighborhood hippie house the night before?

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan

Check out more of my work in:

Friday, October 28, 2011

This is What Happens When "In Jill's Words" Gets Writer's Block

I think I've had a case of writer's block this past week. Apparently, the more frequently one writes, the more likely one is to be afflicted by this condition.

Writing is not my day job. It's not even my night job. It's more like a weekend job and only when I'm not stressing out about all of the other tasks I have to complete before re-entering the trenches on Monday.

Last Monday, when I re-entered the trenches, I found myself with a miserable head cold, a gift given to me by my student teacher whose last day had been the previous Friday. There I was, sick and teaching ten classes per day with no assistant for the first time in eight weeks, simultaneously prepping my Veterans Day and Winter Programs, dealing with students throwing up in class (I've already had three sickies this year), collecting money for recorders, facilitating a patriotic mural painting during my lunch hours, etc., etc., etc. Oh, and by the way, I was loving every minute of it because I was finally teaching (as opposed to "mentoring" from the sidelines) again.

But I was left with little time to be witty.

Last night, I was so desperate that I even asked my very serious, very un-funny husband for help. (I personally think he's pretty humorous, but he claims otherwise.)

"What should I write about this weekend? I need a funny topic."

"Write about something that's not me," was Dan's response.

We were both staring into our respective bathroom mirrors, our mouths full of toothpaste.

"But you're so funny."

"No I'm not. I'm very serious."

"Then very seriously, Dan, what funny thing should I write about this week?"

Dan spit.

"Sweaters." He glanced at my cardigan hanging on the bathroom door. "The Broncos." He pointed at the BSU shirt I was wearing. "Hair brush. Kleenex."

He started laughing uncontrollably.

"Are you just naming random items around this bathroom?"

"Pretty funny, huh?"

I groaned and rolled my eyes, leaving him alone as he called out after me, "Toothpaste!"

Even though Dan's goal was to get me to write about something other than him, his weird demonstration last night had the opposite effect.

This is as witty as head-cold-ridden "In Jill's Words" gets. I apologize in advance for the weak topic.

Or, in the words of my husband, who said to me a few minutes ago, "You're writing about writer's block? That's so meta." (If he wishes to remain so anonymous, why does he have to be so funny?)

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan

Check out more of my work in:

Friday, October 21, 2011

The TouchPad Widow, Part 2

In last week's “The TouchPad Widow, Part 1," Dan and I had decided to buy one of the discounted TouchPads HP was trying to sell off. After Dan made the purchase online, we eagerly awaited the arrival of our new tech toy.

It showed up on our front porch a few days later. Dan thought the TouchPad was so awesome that he hardly made eye contact with me for a week. I, on the other hand, was pretty grossed out by the greasy fingerprints on the screen. Apparently, greasy fingerprints are part of the wonders of touchscreen technology.

Now Dan's nose is always in the TouchPad. It's kind of like trying to talk to these young 'un, Wired Generation teenagers, always texting or . . . texting - I don't know what all these newfangled electronic gadgets are. Twittering, tweeting, chirping?

The other morning, I was in the bathroom, fixing my hair. Dan stood in the doorway, "listening" to me prattle on about very important (I'm pretty certain - very important) issues. Then I noticed he had the TouchPad in his hands.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah . . ."

"When you don't make eye contact with someone while they're talking, it makes them think you're not listening."

He didn't respond.

In an attempt to entertain myself, since it appeared no one else was going to pay attention to me for a while, I started randomly calling out things like:

"Stop playing with your TouchPad!"

"Are you playing with your TouchPad again?"

"Ooo. That sounds a little naughty!"

Still no response. Not even an eye roll or a furrowed brow.

One afternoon, Dan found a weather app. He was so excited that he had actually found a compatible app that he spent all day looking at it.

He would peek into the office (where I was hiding from him and the TouchPad) and announce, "Accuweather says it's 64 right now. There's an app for that."

Later that week, I was deciding whether or not I wanted to ride my bike to my doctor's appointment.

"We can look it up on Accuweather," I said to Dan. "Aren't you proud of me? I want to use the TouchPad."

Dan, sensing that I was warming up to the TouchPad, downloaded a free e-book from Amazon. I guess he figured the way to my heart was through a book, even if it was in an electronic format. I have been reluctant to embrace the e-book idea. Dan has already said if we ever get a Nook or a Kindle, we can't buy any more print books. ("It's better for the environment," he says, appealing to my environmentalist sensibilities.) Maybe I'm just an old lady, but I still love feeling paper flipping through my fingers.

The other day, while Dan was still at work, I found myself looking for the TouchPad. I figured Dan must have taken it with him, and all of a sudden, I felt a little sad that I couldn't play with it. Perhaps soon, Dan will be the one asking, "Are you playing with your TouchPad again?"

That still sounds slightly naughty.

Dilbert.com

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Friday, October 14, 2011

The TouchPad Widow, Part 1

Some women bemoan being football widows around this time of the year, or more specifically from where I'm writing, Boise State football widows. I thought I was so fortunate, after growing up a non-sports fan in a live-eat-breathe sports family, to find a sports un-enthusiast husband.

But I have now joined your ranks, football widows. Except in my case, I have become "The TouchPad Widow." I thought I was safe in marrying an intellectual computer geek who was more interested in codes and algorithms than the Superbowl, but I didn't realize that a tech toy "is to" software engineers "as" the NFL season "is to" sports fanatics.

Hewlett-Packard is selling off its TouchPad stock - $99 for the 16GB and $150 for the 32 GB. Just to put this into perspective, the 16GB model was around $500 when it was first launched.
After hearing about the clearance sale, Dan and I spent many sleepless nights discussing whether or not we were going to purchase a TouchPad at this deeply discounted price.

Q: Do we need a TouchPad? Would it really be that much more convenient?
A: No, it would just be a toy.

Q: Is HP even going to continue supporting them?
A: Maybe for a little while.

Q: Do we really want to promote the use of conflict minerals and overseas slave labor through this purchase?
A: No, but the company won't be making much of a profit off this anyway.
Q: Doesn't that sound a bit like a rationalization?
A: Yeah . . . probably . . .

Q: Do you remember how I used to call iPads "i-Maxi-Pads" when they first came out?
A: Yes.
Q: That was so funny, huh?
A: Hilarious.

Eventually, Dan had to make a decision.

"The sale opens tomorrow morning at 10:00. My manager scheduled our meeting a half-hour later just so we could all snag TouchPads."

"Are you going to buy one after all?"

Dan crinkled his eyebrows, "I don't know. You can't watch Netflix or Hulu on it - although I might be able to hack into it. You can't use iTunes or iBooks. It doesn't support Android or Apple apps. It's WiFi only, no 3G or GPS . . . "

"Sounds fantastic," I said sarcastically.

"But it's only $99."

"Then you should just get it."

"Okay."

"Is that all you wanted, for me to make the decision?"

"Yes," and with that, Dan was off to work.

He returned that afternoon, having successfully ordered a TouchPad before the website and call center crashed. The order was expected to arrive on our front doorstep that weekend. Little did I know that I was one step closer to becoming The TouchPad Widow.

Join me next week when I write about post-TouchPad life in "The TouchPad Widow, Part 2."

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Friday, October 07, 2011

Celebrate Good Times: Woman Power!

A few years ago, a couple of studies found correlations between friendships and life expectancy. In the women's magazines (to which I subscribe for research purposes only), these findings took the form of article titles like "Women Need Friends to Live a Longer Life" or "You Go, Girl: The Link between Longevity and Friendships."

I always scoffed at these proclamations with a sigh and a roll of the eyes. It was already difficult to find enough hours in the day to do everything I needed and/or wanted to do. And now some cheesy women’s magazine was telling me I needed to spend time building a larger network of friends. Just what I needed – one more task to add to my to-do list.

So I shunned this thinking. Maintaining friendships was more likely to cause me stress than increase my life expectancy. I had my husband; I liked hanging out with him. Most of my friends from high school and college lived out of town or were busy with their own families and jobs.

After my mother died and before my father remarried, my immediate family consisted of my dad, my brother, my husband, and me. Consequently, for a few years of my adult life, I didn’t even have women in my own family with whom I could interact.

However, I changed my tune a little (or at least modulated it into a neighboring key) after taking part in the Women’s Fitness Celebration a couple of weeks ago. It had been a few years since I had been free to participate in this, and I had forgotten how rewarding it was to socialize with other females and to be a part of a "Women Only" event.

This year, my father’s wife, her two daughters, her daughter-in-law, and her daughter-in-law’s friend joined in the festivities. (My father’s wife, didn’t end up walking with us. She fell ill the morning of the 5K, but we had all gone out to dinner the night before.) I also met up with one of my best friends and her family at the finish line. I had such a pleasant time during this girls’ weekend that I started to think there might be something to this “Girlfriends Are a Necessity” theme that the magazines had been touting.

I met my girl group at a downtown coffee shop for breakfast. We watched as female walkers and runners, clad in multicolor leggings, fluorescent wigs, and crazy, oversized sunglasses, lined the streets. Then, two of the women in my group pulled their arms through a set of orange and yellow, translucent wings.

We gathered at the starting line, red and purple balloons floating intermittently through the air. Of course, as someone who occasionally embraces the title of "Tree-Hugger," I couldn't get past the environmental impact of all that plastic eventually littering the earth.

We weaved in and out of the hoard of women, attempting to find enough room to move freely for the 3.1 miles. We critiqued the various sets of butterfly and fairy wings (which were surprisingly prevalent) throughout the crowd. We compared Zumba classes. We admired the older homes and the newly-built condominiums as we walked through a Boise Bench neighborhood. We related in ways that, though I tell my husband everything, only girls could truly understand.

At one point on the course, we passed a group of cheerleaders, chanting and hooting at us from the sidelines.

“That’s just what we need, a bunch of Barbie dolls rooting us on,” I said, a little louder than I had intended.

A woman walking beside me started laughing.

"Did I say that out loud?" I said, feigning embarrassment.

"My thought was, 'Why aren’t they out here with us?'” the woman said.

At the finish line, we were greeted by a group of men in tuxedo jackets and shorts, a longstanding tradition of this event. One man in particular was wearing bright yellow gym shorts with his coattails. This 5K was less about being in premium physical shape than it was about uniting and lifting up a community of women.

Even as I walked to Julia Davis Park where my husband, Dan, was picking me up, several people asked me about the race, gave me the thumbs up sign, and congratulated me - all that encouragement for an simple 5K. Sometimes (men, are you listening?), a little encouragement and female bonding is just what we women need.

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Meta: The Art of Self Reference

I am going to confess something that, as someone who loves playing with words and grammar and syntax, is very difficult to admit. I don't know how to use the word "meta." Metaphysical, metaphor, metamorphosis - those are all concepts I can grasp. But this new slang version of what I used to think was just a prefix completely befuddles me. It is one of those words that extremely cool people use, like Jeff Winger on Community. And I want to be nothing else if not cool.

I told my husband, Dan, about my confusion.

"Meta means self-referential," he said.

"When did it start meaning that?"

"Forever."

Actually, from what I can gather, "meta" has just recently gained popularity as a stand alone colloquialism. Wikipedia claims the term "meta" was coined as a word in the 1979 book Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid. "Meta" was the November 2005 Urban Word of the Day on urbandictionary.com (warning: some entries not suitable for all audiences, and I'm pretty sure they just make some of that stuff up). The New York Times ran an article on the emergence of the prefix-turned-stand-alone-word "meta" in December of 2005. And the modern, hipster definition of "meta" as a self-referential adjective and noun shows up in dictionary.com's 21st Century Lexicon, copyright 2003-2011.

In other words, "meta," in its current usage, is a fairly recent addition to our modern vernacular. It appears that I'm jumping on the Meta Bandwagon a little later than most of the other young, hip people. But, as a mid-thirties professional woman, I have to resign myself that - alas - I am not as young and hip as I used to be.

Even after my extensive (note the sarcasm) research, I still don't know how to use "meta" properly. No one can explain it to my satisfaction. Will I just know it when I see it?

"A film within a film." I can grasp that concept.

"Dude, that's so meta." Not so much.

"That seems somewhat meta, dude." Um, if your defining sentence has "dude" in it . . .

"A lot of rock 'n' roll is 'meta,'" Dan explained to me once. "Listen to just about any Kiss song or 'I Wanna Rock' by Twisted Sister."

It was starting to sink in.

He continued, "Writing about writing or singing about singing."

Then he became philosophical, "
Is watching a TV show about watching TV meta, or is watching a TV show about watching yourself watching TV meta? Or is that just more meta?"

I stared at him blankly.

That's when I began using "meta" to mean anything I wanted, kind of like when the Smurfs would replace various parts of speech with “smurfed” (please do NOT consult the Urban Dictionary): "Are you out of your smurf?" "Medical history is about to be smurfed!" "Great Smurf!" or “That’s smurfed up!” (Oh, I don’t think they said that one in the cartoon.)

I have been known to say, "That shirt is so meta," or "I liked the book, but it was kind of meta," just to sound cool. And, before you try to justify my examples, the shirt did not read, "This is a shirt," and the book wasn't a book about a book. Those would truly be meta examples - I think.


"Is 'Who's on First' meta?" I asked Dan one afternoon.

"Probably . . . kind of. . ."

"Meta is like breaking the 4th wall in theater!" I proclaimed a few minutes later.

Dan looked at me with his eyebrows crinkled for a long time.

"Isn't it?" I asked, still awaiting his reply. Then I said quietly, "No."

"It might be an example of meta . . . kind of . . ."

Later that day, Dan and I were talking about a funny video he had taken of me, a video that perfectly depicted my neuroses.

"I think you like that video even though you keep saying it's embarrassing," he said. "You keep showing it to people."

"That's because I'm meta."

"What?"

"Still not right? Dang it. I thought I was getting it."

"Usually ideas are meta, not people," Dan said.

"You just made my brain explode."

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Yet Another Hiking Story

I thought I would say my final farewell to summer with one more hiking story. You might have guessed from my previous hiking anecdote that adventure ensues wherever my foot treads.

This time, my husband and I hiked to Mill Lake. In fact, we had originally planned to hike the Mill Lake trail in July but decided instead to venture to Norton Lakes when we saw the high water in Prairie Creek. (Prairie Creek crosses the Mill Lake trail.) Of course, that was a brilliant choice, considering the water was so low at Norton Lakes. (Did I mention my last hiking blog post was entitled In Which I Discover the Perils of Hiking During a High Water Year?) After fording the creeks and trekking across snow on the Norton Lakes trail, I was no longer allowed to use "too much water" as an excuse to turn around and head back to the car.

There were three creek crossings on the Mill Lake trail. The first crossing was at the trailhead, and as I found myself suspended on a log a quarter of the way across the creek, I thought about telling my husband, Dan, "Too bad. Change of plans. I don't feel like hiking today after all."

I was about to tell him this - very loudly - when Dan took out the camera. The last time Dan "took out the camera," he ended up recording one of my most notorious acrophobia meltdowns.
(See Exhibit A.)

"STOP!" I shouted. Dan was already across the creek. “When I giggle, and I’m frozen on a log suspended over water, it doesn’t necessarily mean 'He, he, he, I’m so happy to be here with my witty, funny husband.' It actually means that I’m scared to death. I giggle when I'm nervous. It's the way I deal with anxiety.”

"And you talk a lot too," Dan added.

He put away the camera, mostly because he knew if he didn't come help me across the log, I might stay there all day.

On the way up the mountain, Dan had to escort me across each creek crossing while I whimpered things like:

"I can't move. I need help."

"I'm not going to make it -
I'm not going to make it - I'm not going to make it."

"Why do you always make me do this?!"

After the final crossing, I exclaimed, probably louder than usual, “'Creek' is not a good description for this body of water. How about we say it's a whitewater rapid-ish sea of foamy waves cresting at 70 feet -- ”

"There are people up ahead, Becky," Dan interrupted my eloquent oration. "It's time to dial back the crazy.”

Luckily, we were out of earshot of other hikers when we came upon a pile of fresh (extremely fresh) horse manure on the trail. Flies covered it, resting like frogs on lily pads. This sight even grossed out Dan - invincible, outdoorsy, superhero Dan. We hesitated, trying to ascertain the least disgusting way of getting around it.

“RUN!” I yelled.

We ran across the trail, screaming and flailing our arms (actually, the screaming and flailing was just me) as flies swarmed around us like some B-grade horror movie
.

On our way back down the mountain, I was able to cross the creeks without much help from Dan. I even made it across one of the creeks completely solo . . . while hanging onto an adjacent log and crawling on all fours.

“I did it all by myself!" I said with pride as my feet touched dry land. "That was good, huh? It’s okay I had to go on all fours, right?”

Dan paused.

“It wasn't very graceful,” he
finally said.

“I wasn’t going for graceful. I was going for survival.”

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

It's Always the Little Dogs (Sigh)

I have learned one important lesson on my daily jogs - stay away from the little dogs. I have concluded that little dogs suffer from what I like to call "Small Dog Syndrome," not unlike "Napoleon Syndrome (a.k.a. Small Man Syndrome)," although little dogs are probably not quite as destructive as little men.

I have been chased relentlessly by rat terriers, Chihuahuas, and miniature schnauzers. (One of my neighbors owns four mini schnauzers. Now that will keep you busy.) These little ones scamper after me and yip at me from their fenced backyards, making them virtually harmless and kind of cute.

In the not-so-cute vein, one summer morning I was running down one of my neighborhood streets. I happened to pass a woman who was gardening in her front yard while her dachshund stood guard. I ran by, on the sidewalk, a comfortable distance from the house. The wiener dog waddled up to me as I approached, his short stubby legs pitter-pattering along the grass. I thought perhaps he wanted to greet me, maybe even compliment me (in doggie language) on my healthy lifestyle. Instead, he bit me on my shin and (I swear) nodded his head in satisfaction as he shuffled back to his front yard.

"AGGGHHH!" I exclaimed, startled, expecting an apology or hoping, at the least, for a reaction from the dog owner who had, incidentally, been watching the entire event unfold.

She shrugged and turned back to her gardening.

I had a bruise on my shin for the rest of the week.

I found the mental image of the wiener dog waddling up to me and attacking the highest, reachable body part - my shin - quite amusing. I had been nipped at once before by a mini poodle named Huckleberry. "Huckleberry, don't," was his owner's unconvincing, whiny plea, so I was also used to people not taking responsibility for their pets.

But when I posted this most recent anecdote on Facebook, I was amazed at the outrage this elicited from fellow dog owners.

"Bad dog-owner!" they said. "Who lets their dog bite someone and then not even apologize for it?"

Apparently, the proper response to that question is, "The woman who lives around the corner from me and gardens in her front yard while her dachshund acts as sentinel . . . Oh, and the man who walks his pugs through the park behind my house."

I was jogging on a sidewalk that runs through my neighborhood park. I saw a gentleman walking three pugs that were barreling down the path, so I moved to the side, onto the grass, to give the dogs more room. I had no cause for concern. I was giving them plenty of space, and they were on a leash.

I repeat - they were on a leash.

Then the pug closest to me reached out, bit my heel (which was, luckily, protected by my tennis shoe), and gave one of those raspy, pug-gy growls. I glanced at the owner in dismay. He said nothing.

"Geesh," I muttered, half-hoping I was audible enough for him to hear. "Your dog's not that cute."

I've learned my lesson. Let me share it with you.

If you see a little dog, just assume that it suffers from Small Dog Syndrome, a serious, mental disorder that causes the smaller canine breeds to act out in irrational and ferocious ways.

And run the other direction.

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, now available at www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Daring Feats on Frozen Water (or in Living Rooms)

I introduced my husband, Dan, to the Sun Valley Summer Ice Shows about a year ago. Figure skating is not a sport I would normally expect Dan to embrace. But in our seven years of marriage, I have succeeded in exposing Dan to a more sophisticated culture. And I can happily say that both of us now enjoy a variety of aesthetic entertainment on a regular basis.

Okay, so maybe it's not about the artistry. Dan's initial response to the Sun Valley Ice Show was, "This is way better than the boring stuff they do on the Olympics." The Sun Valley Ice Show is a bit like a circus-on-ice.

Last weekend, we found ourselves sitting on the west bleachers, waiting for the show to begin, watching the Zamboni circle the rink. I was excited to see Sasha Cohen.

Dan, on the other hand, said with eager anticipation, "I wonder if they're going to do that trick where they swing a woman by the legs, and her head gets so close to the ground that it looks like it's going to smack against the ice."

"You mean that trick I have to watch through my fingers, the trick where the crowd gasps in horror while you clap enthusiastically and egg the skaters on?"

"That's the one."

I handed him the camera. Dan also loves the challenge of photographing the skaters' most dangerous tricks in action.

And before you think it can't be that bad because I tend to exaggerate (as my husband is probably muttering right now while he reads this), here are some examples of those "most dangerous tricks."

One woman skates while hula hooping multiple hoops. Eventually, she graduates to a fiery hoop by the end of the show. One male skater places his female partner upside down on his shoulders as they glide around on the ice. Another male skater holds his ice partner above his head with one hand. In a different number, a skater holds his partner by her stomach . . . on his head. And that doesn't include the jumps, the back flips, and the throwing of one's partner across the ice.

While I am thrilled that I no longer have to pull teeth to get Dan to take me to an ice show, I am not so thrilled when we get back home, and he wants to try "ice skating" in our living room. I have had to fend off several attempts at being flipped in midair while simultaneously being thrown over the couch. And every now and then, Dan rushes toward me with every intention of lifting me over his head and balancing me on his index finger.

"You have to go limp," Dan instructed wisely. "Don't try to control it."

"How about we don't try ice skating moves in our living room at all?"

But truly, it's a win-win situation for all involved. I get to see live, phenomenal figure skating. Dan gets to see daring feats performed on frozen water. And our neighbors probably get to see some pretty lively entertainment through our windows when we get home.

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, available September 15, 2011 from www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Saturday, September 03, 2011

Calvin and the Dinosaur Museum

With the Labor Day holiday approaching, I have had less time to craft a post full of clever witticisms. So I decided to let my students do the work this week. The following anecdote occurred during a second grade class while my student teacher was attempting to introduce herself to the kids. For those of you who have children or work with children, you know you can't make this stuff up.

My student teacher had just shown the kids some pictures from her trip to Italy when little towheaded Calvin raised his hand. She called on him, and he wagged his finger at her, saying authoritatively.

“I’m Calvin with a C. Okay. When I grow up, here's what I'm going to do. I’m going to travel the whole entire world and find every dinosaur fossil in the whole entire world and bring all of them back to Idaho and put them in a huge museum, and I’m going to build it on the plains. I'm going to call it the World Museum, and it's going to have three rooms, Cabella’s size.”

All of a sudden, another second grader named Hank became very excited. He turned around to face Calvin.

“Are we friends, Calvin? Are we friends?"

"Well, yes," Calvin answered Hank abruptly.

"Can I help you now that we're friends?”

Calvin turned his wagging finger on Hank and said sternly, “Now, Hank, here’s how it’s going to be. You can help me find the fossils.”

As the class walked out of the music room, Hank bounced over to me.

"I’m going to help Calvin find fossils because I’m his friend now!”

Later that day, I told Calvin's teacher about the unusual entertainment in music class that morning.

"Oh yes," his teacher said as I finished my tale through a fit of laughter. "I've heard about this dinosaur museum. Calvin's got it all planned out!"

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, available September 15, 2011 from www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.


Saturday, August 27, 2011

More School, More Books, More Teachers' Dirty Looks

August rolled around, and I began to mourn the end of my summer. Most teachers probably relate to this sentiment in varying degrees, but this year, the end of my summer was especially bittersweet. The last three months were very rewarding. I debuted with a local opera company which ended up paying for my Orff Level I training. I did a lot of writing and traveling. I enjoyed my odd jobs so much that I started asking myself if I should become a full-time freelance writer or if I should try to study opera or musical theater more extensively and start auditioning around.

"You always feel this way at the end of the summer," Dan reminded me. "As soon as you see your kids, you'll forget all about the summer."

I held on to that promise throughout the final months, hoping for an attitude change by the beginning of August.

Earlier in the summer, I had vaguely glimpsed Dan's prediction during my Orff certification course. I was telling a story about one of my soon-to-be fifth graders. I paused midway through and said with a sigh, "I miss my kids."

Several of the experienced music teachers in the room nodded their heads in empathy. A couple of the undergrads, who hadn't started their teaching careers, looked at me like I was a weird science experiment.

"Did I just hear you say that?" one of the college students said.

"Yeah," I mused, also surprised.

But I finished my class and quickly regressed into my Maybe I Should Quit Teaching to Become a Writer/Opera Singer/Broadway Star/Gardener/European Traveler/Professional Reader/Do-Nothing-For-A-Living Mentality.

By the second week of August, my school recorders, disassembled and recently retrieved from the dishwasher, sat drying on the kitchen counter. Dan spent his Monday lunch hour, carrying heavy boxes and moving risers around in my classroom. That week, students began to creep around the school like zombies trying to get into a building containing the last living humans.

One student, whose mother was volunteering in the school office, showed up at my door, asking if she could "help."

"She begged to come with me," the mother told me later. "I told her, 'If the teachers don't want you around, you need to leave them alone.' "

The little girl started "helping" in one primary classroom - "When Mrs. S is busy, she sends me to Miss H's room."

Somehow, the little girl ended up in my room. I put her to work recycling old files for me.

"Well," she said after we had thoroughly filled up my recycle bin, "I'd better get back to Miss H's room."

At that moment, I started to experience a twinge of Glad-to-See-My-Kids Syndrome, but it soon disappeared that evening when I started looking through my European vacation pictures on my home computer.

The following week, a couple of sisters stopped by my classroom and asked if they could help me get ready for the school's Sneak Peek.

They spent the afternoon compiling listening journals and telling me blonde jokes - "How does a blonde try to kill a fish? She drowns it."

After their plethora of blonde jokes had been exhausted, I said to the seventh grade sister with genuine nostalgia, "I can't believe you're going to be in junior high this year. And you," I turned to her sixth grade sister, "are leaving me next year. What am I going to do without either of you to entertain me?"

"I'll be here to pick her up after school," the seventh grade sister said.

"Like your oldest sister did last year?" Their oldest sister, now in high school, was also one of my former kids.

They informed me that their oldest sister was too busy watching T.V. to pick them up at school anymore.

Then the sixth grade sister paused and asked me, "Do you still type up all the funny things we say on your computer?"

At the Sneak Peek, several of last year's sixth graders - now seventh graders and no longer my "kiddos" - stopped by and talked about their excitement and apprehension about the next day, the first day of junior high.

Their biggest fear? Being able to open their lockers.

By the end of the evening, I was no longer mourning the end of my summer. Instead, I was mourning the loss of my former students. And I found myself equally delighted to see my new and returning students. I was officially ready for the school year to begin.

Check out my writing in An Eclectic Collage Volume 2: Relationships of Life, available September 15, 2011 from www.freundshippress.com. For more information, visit the book's Facebook page.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

National Duggan's European Vacation, Episode #4: A Parallel Universe

NOTE: Dan and I were in London the day Mark Duggan was shot. We watched the report on the morning news from our hotel room. We flew out of the U.K. the day before the riots broke. Though I am writing a humor piece, I do not want to disregard the tragedy, desperation, and - frankly - social injustice that results in such violence. My heart goes out to all those affected by the London riots.

Traveling to the United Kingdom (and Ireland) was a bit like entering a parallel universe, or what I imagine entering a parallel universe to be, my reference to parallel universes being limited to the television show, Fringe. The culture and the language were familiar but slightly tweaked. We could communicate and relate to the world around us, but everything felt a little alien. The characters on Fringe call the parallel universe "Over There." Dan and I returned home, the U.K and Ireland now our (much beloved) "Over There."

Tour books try to prepare you for the culture shock. We knew, because we obsessively research our travels, that the bathtubs were elevated, and the hotels rarely provide washcloths. We knew about the different outlets and voltage. We knew soccer is actually "football" and going to the bathroom equals going to the "loo." But reading and experiencing are two different things. Here are some of the interesting observations we made during our vacation, I mean, "holiday." (These reflections by no means capture an entire country and its culture. After all, we were only there for two weeks.)

Signs:
  • Yield signs read "Give Way"
  • Exit signs read "Way Out"
  • In case of fire, use stairs = an icon of a little panicked cartoon man running, exactly what we're told not to do in case of fire

Restaurants:
  • Ordering food to go = "take away"
  • Often in more casual eateries (think delis with pre-made sandwiches, etc.), "dining in" costs extra.
  • In Ireland, we noticed that the hosts/hostesses ask, "Are you okay?" which translates to "Two for dinner?"
  • The servers don't bring the check before you finish your meal and rush you out the door like they do in American restaurants. That was kind of refreshing. They wait for you to ask for your "bill" (as opposed to check). This tells them that you are ready to leave.
Other parallel universe attributes:
  • In the U.K. and Ireland, they drive on the left side - still weird even if you've been told over and over that this is the case.
  • Standing in line = Standing in "queue"
  • They talk funny, or maybe we do. (The Australians on our tour had a hard time understanding us Americans, but understood the Brits, Scots, Welsh, and Irish just fine.)
  • The outlets in the hotel bathrooms were only for shavers.
  • Tire is sometimes spelled "tyre" (at least in Ireland).
  • Low-power dryers, rather than paper towels, were the hand-drying apparatus of choice in the "toilets" (as opposed to restrooms).
  • I never found an auto flush in the U.K. or in Ireland.
  • Flyers explaining various components of socialized medicine popped up in the "loo" stalls.
  • Some of the hotel-provided blow dryers looked like mini vacuums mounted to the walls.
  • A switch had to be flipped to turn on the electrical outlets.
  • Pickpocketing seemed to be more prevalent than mugging.
  • The bank notes were different sizes and didn't fit in Dan's American wallet.
  • Tax was included in the price at stores; no math was required to figure out the actual payment due.
  • Cream or custard was poured over every dessert. (I fully embraced this tradition.)
The customs officials in the U.K. seemed a lot friendlier than in the U.S. When we came back to the States, the official was very serious, militaristic even. But upon entering England:

"How do you two know each other?" the British official asked.
"We're married."
"To each other?" Then he chuckled heartily. "Just a little joke."
As we left, he called after us, "Buy a lot while you're here because when you go back, your dollar won't be worth much."
And that turned out to be quite prophetic.

National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #1

National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #2
National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #3

Saturday, August 13, 2011

National Duggan's European Vacation, Episode #3: The Official Duggan Travelogue

NOTE: Dan and I were in London the day Mark Duggan was shot. We watched the report on the morning news from our hotel room. We flew out of the U.K. the day before the riots broke. Though I am writing a humor piece, I do not want to disregard the tragedy, desperation, and - frankly - social injustice that results in such violence. My heart goes out to all those affected by the London riots.

PRE-VACATION (or, in honor of European terminology, "Pre-Holiday") ADVENTURES:
From the time we booked our tour up until the time we flew to London, Dan walked around the house speaking in (his version of) an Irish brogue.

“I’m Irish," (Imagine a very American boy from the Wild West, regardless of his last name - Duggan - attempting an Irish dialect.) "I've got ta work on me Irish accent," he would say. "I’m goin’ to the mothuh-land."

“Please don’t say that when we get over there,” I warned.

A month or two before our highly anticipated vacation, we took an inventory of any sort of equipment, luggage, etc. we might need overseas.

Dan kept insisting that we only needed one backpack, but I wanted one too, something larger than a purse. While I was explaining this, I put the backpack on and bounced around the living room.

"See, aren't I cute?" I put the backpack on in front, "And in the crowded areas, to avoid pick-pockets, I’ll wear it like this!” I explained as I stroked the pack (a little suggestively, I must admit).

I must have been convincing. Dan bought me a canvas messenger bag just for our trip.

Then came the adventure of packing lightly . . . for two weeks . . .

We checked the Heathrow website for any unknown security requirements. U.K. guidelines looked similar to U.S. guidelines. We did find a couple of funny details on the website, however.

(Under FAQ's):
"What foodstuffs can I carry in my hand luggage? Can I take my wedding cake?"

Apparently, wedding cake is just fine to fly to the U.K.

(Under banned projectile-firing weapons):
No catapults.

We were pretty certain we didn't have any catapults around the house, so we started to pack. At least, I started to pack. Dan, on the other hand, tried to put it off as long as possible.

While I was going through my various travel-size toiletries, Dan walked into the master bath, donning his new raincoat.

"I like my new raincoat. I think I'll try it out."

And with that, he locked himself in the shower room.

"Dan, do not turn on that shower! Get out here and pack."

A couple of minutes later, he rolled the suitcases into the bathroom (where I was still packing) and said, "Look, a short handle for you."

Dan had just discovered the adjustable handle lengths on our new luggage.

After my suitcase was packed, Dan stood on the bathroom scale and weighed it, more likely a symptom of his procrastination efforts than a genuine need to ascertain the weight of my bag. Finally, realizing that I was "winning," he started to pack his own bags. He still finished before I did.

LONDON:
Our first night in London, my worst nightmare came true. I had seen enough romantic comedies about American couples traveling in Europe to know that the Yanks are notorious for causing power outages through the use of electrical appliances with improper voltage. And even here in America, I had a habit of blowing out fuses in older buildings (e.g. in Sun Valley on my honeymoon and in Cairo, Illinois at my Aunt Alice's turn-of-the-century home). I had also read several accounts on the internet posted by American travelers who had done just that, and I had come to the conclusion that this stereotype was 100% true.

So Dan and I extensively researched adapters, converters, and dual voltage appliances and decided that we would be just fine with my dual voltage hair flattening iron and an adapter. At the last minute, I suggested we also bring a surge protector; it was not dual voltage, but it could supposedly handle up to 300 volts.

"But what about all of the stories about people who had adapters and converters and still blew out their room and the five rooms next to them?" I asked as I tentatively plugged my flat iron into the surge protector which was plugged into the adapter which was plugged into an ominous looking European outlet.

"Don't listen to those dumb people on the internet," Dan assured me. "They don't know anything."

Then I switched on the outlet on and blew the fuse. We were left without a T.V. and hair dryer.

"Well, I guess I go curly tomorrow," I said. "If we did just blow out the next five rooms, will they know it was us?"

We sneaked out the next morning, possibly after blowing out the other rooms in our hall. Our lights were still on though, and no one from maintenance came banging on our door. It turned out we hadn't needed the surge protector after all. Strangely, what was supposed to have protected a surge had actually caused one. For the rest of the trip, my dual voltage flattening iron worked fine with an adapter and sans surge protector.

STONEHENGE - SALISBURY - BATH - NEWPORT, WALES:
The next morning, after quickly sneaking out of our room before anyone could call us "Stupid Americans," we officially started our tour. We began with a routine that would continue every morning throughout the trip. Paul the Guide would say, "Say 'Hello, Young Richard.'" And we tourists would recite in unison, "Hello, Young Richard." Young Richard was our driver.

Once on the road, Paul the Guide asked if anyone knew of James Dyson. Dan was the only one who raised his hand.

"He invented that Airblade Hand Dryer and the bagless vacuum cleaner," Dan whispered to me enthusiastically.

"That's kind of nerdy that you know that," I whispered back.

Paul the Guide had a plethora of interesting information, but I just couldn't stay awake on the bus. And I couldn't exactly blame jet lag. Maybe I was reverting back to my childhood. My parents used to say that when I was a baby, they would throw me in the car and drive around town because it was the only thing that would put me to sleep. We were supposed to rotate seats on the bus which meant, in a few days, I would be up front, in view of our guide, sleeping very inconspicuously.

CARDIFF, WALES - WATERFORD, IRELAND:
Right before we drove off the ferry into Ireland the next day, I said to Dan, "We're in the mothuh-land."

"We're still at sea," he responded, excited to finally get to use his brogue.

Paul the Guide, who had been telling us that the elevators at our next hotel - a charming historic hotel - were powered by mice, called out our room numbers for the night. When he got to our name, he said, "Duggans - welcome back to Ireland - room 226."

Dan looked very pleased that someone had recognized that he was indeed back in the mothuh-land.

WATERFORD - KILKINNEY - DUBLIN:
Dan's heritage kept manifesting itself throughout our time in Ireland. In Kilkenney, after seeing our last name on our credit card, one restaurant cashier informed us, "If you're a Duggan [with two g's], you're probably from here."

As we left the restaurant, Dan said, "This is a neat, little town. I'm proud of being from here."

DUBLIN:
I had already fallen in love with Dublin before ever setting foot on European soil after seeing the movie (or to be more accurate, encountered the emotional musical experience that is the movie) Once. It did not disappoint. Afterward, when I asked Dan to tell me his favorite city we visited, he also said "Dublin" without hesitation.

Our tour guide told us the story of the Ha'penny Bridge as we drove to our hotel.

In the olden days, young men would walk down a path known as the Gentleman's Walk on one side of the Liffey River. The young ladies would walk on the opposite side. The men would wink and tip their hats at the lady of their choice, and if the young woman tipped her parasol, it indicated that the gentleman in question was invited to meet her on the Ha'penny Bridge.

The next evening, Dan tried to reenact this story, but I ended up walking too fast and missed him winking at me from across the river. With my poor eyesight, I probably wouldn't have seen it anyway. We did meet on the bridge, satisfied in having participated in a slightly mushy Irish legend.









Dan was adamant about having Irish Stew at dinner that night, wanting to embrace Irish tradition to the fullest during our last night in the mothuh-land. We walked streets of Dublin until we found a pub with an empty table.

Later, I asked him how his long-awaited Irish Stew had tasted.

"It was okay," he replied. Actually, by Dan's stoic standards, that's not too bad.

BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND - EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND:
The next morning, we were seated in the dreaded front row on the bus. As it turned out, Paul the Guide didn't seem to mind that I occasionally listened while "resting my eyes." And Dan and I got a behind-the-scenes perspective of our tour.

"Elvis Presley landed at that airport," Paul the Guide said over the P.A. system as we drove into Scotland. "It was the only show Elvis did here."

Then he set the microphone aside and said to Richard with a chuckle, "What kind of rubbish is that?"

Then to us he said, "Now your life is complete, now that you know that."

Paul the Guide would also sing from his perch in the front of the bus. We thought he might be keeping his voice warm, or maybe he was just trying to keep himself awake. I could relate.

He would talk to the cars on the roads, "Come on, Little Volvo," and "Did we just break out of jail?" about a woman driver wearing a black and white striped top.

"He reminds me of Mr. Bean with his funny noises," Dan said. And, almost on cue, Paul the Guide said, "Doobee, doobee, doo, doo."

One drawback to sitting in the front, I had to stop Dan from being a backseat driver and making suggestions to Young Richard.

I pointed emphatically to a sign above our heads that read, "Do not talk to driver."

"I'm a control freak, huh?" Dan said.

"YES!"

EDINBURGH:
The first thing I saw when we drove into Edinburgh was a busker playing a guitar. His dog stood loyally beside him, holding a purple hat for tips.

We took a tour of Edinburgh Castle the first morning. Paul the Guide took a much deserved break and left us in the hands of a "local expert," a tall, blond, blue-eyed man with a thick Scottish brogue. He wore a brown oil skin jacket and a blue and green plaid kilt. And by the way, don't call it a skirt! These Scottish men are bigger than (and probably more masculine than) you. Scotland is known for its extensive military history. If you insult their kilts, American men, I have a feeling, they could easily take you down and break a few bones.

YORK - STRATFORD-UPON-AVON:
Upon arrival in York, England, Dan and I watched a street performer juggle knives on a unicycle. I, of course, watched through my fingers.

When he finished risking his life, the performer passed around a yellow plastic hat for tips. He held up a couple of bank notes and called out, "Tourists, these are five-pound notes. One or two of these would be great!"

After our day in York, right before heading back to the bus, we started to walk a wall that runs throughout the city. I was rambling on aimlessly about a fair trade store we had just visited.

A couple of minutes later, I was frozen, gripping onto the stone wall. I had finally stopped chattering and had realized that I was pretty far off the ground, suspended over a high-traffic street, with no railings preventing me from spilling over the edge and splatting onto a pile of cars.

"Wait! This is scary!" I exclaimed in horror.

"I was wondering when you would notice," Dan said.

Then he took out the camera and snapped my picture, which forced me to swallow my fear and pose in my typical, adorable fashion.

LONDON:
We spent the next morning at Heathrow Airport standing in line for 45 minutes. The self check kiosks were not working, but Globus had gotten us there in plenty of time. In line (or in "queue," I was still in England, after all), Dan entertained himself by drawing his passport out of his pocket like a cowboy in a quick-draw shoot-out.

I suppose this was his way of preparing to leave the "mothuh-land" and return to the great American West.

If you are looking for a tour at a decent price with fun, informative guides (such as Paul the Guide and Young Richard) who take care of everything for you and your family, try Globus. We had a terrific experience with the company.

National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #1

National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #2
National Duggan's European Vacation Episode #4