Barbie and My Feminist Guilt

I love Barbies. I know this goes against all of my feminist ideals. But I do. I have all of my old Barbie dolls from when I was a kid, although most of them are sporting very odd haircuts nowadays. (I was a prodigious child hair stylist.) I still occasionally collect Barbies. When we were first married, Dan used to buy the collector dolls for me as Christmas and birthday presents until he realized he could buy me CDs and Wii video games (that he secretly wanted for himself) instead.

I don't think Barbie gave me unrealistic body image expectations. But, unlike many young girls, I also didn't have a mother or friends who badgered me about my weight. In fact, the one time I complained about my weight and started showing any sign of self-pity, my mother sent me to volunteer at the Salvation Army.

"You want to feel sorry for yourself?" my mom said as she dropped me off at the downtown headquarters. "I'll show you. There are many more people in this world worse off than you."

I always thought the Barbie doll was kind of funny-looking anyway. As a girl who went through puberty kind of early, the last thing I wanted were boobs as big as Barbie's. Besides, I just wanted to do her hair.

According to a recent report on what Barbie would really look like, Barbie's head would be very large, and her ankles and feet would be so small that they would be unable to support the rest of her body. She would have to walk on all fours.

This is probably not what most men would want, and I'm guessing most women would not want this either.

I am much more concerned about the images we see in the media, in fashion magazines, on TV, in movies, and especially in male-targeted publications like Playboy and Penthouse. Society is inundated daily with these illusions that negatively impact a woman's self-worth and give men false perception of how the female body is supposed to look.

Recently, a 3-D replica of Barbie was created via Photoshop to better resemble an average-size woman, specifically in this case, a nineteen-year-old woman.

I know I just spent this whole blog post insisting that I love Barbie dolls and that Barbie did not negatively impact my body image. But I'm also not so set in my Barbie-loving ways to embrace a change. If a Barbie with a more realistic body can have a positive impact on female self-image, especially in young girls, then why not?

I probably would have loved a more realistic-looking Barbie doll too, as long as she still had hair I could cut off.

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

Check out more of my work in:

[Don't] Ring My Bell

It's summer, and that means I am more likely to be at home when people come to our door, for one reason or another. Some of you might be thinking, "I don't like solicitors either." But it's not just the solicitors that make my husband and I roll our eyes. It's everyone, even the Girl Scouts.

(NOTE: I am not a Girl Scout hater. I was a Girl Scout. I just don't like answering the door. I buy at least $36 worth of cookies every year from my Girl Scout students at school.)

Dan and I don't just get annoyed. We deny the doorbell even rang.

I have been known to stay in the office or hide silently behind the refrigerator door in the kitchen until the doorbell ringer leaves.

And if the bell rings while Dan and I are in the living room and visible from the the front door, we hit the floor and spend the next five or six minutes hidden behind our couch.

One time, it was a neighbor friend of ours who knocked on the door, without the least intention of selling us anything. Finally, he called my cell phone. I blamed it on the fact that I was listening to my iPod. (I was actually listening to my iPod.)

"You are entitled to not answer your door, I guess," the neighbor said.

The other afternoon, the doorbell rang, and I fell to floor like I was on a black ops mission. I turned off the TV from my prone position. It turned out it was just a package, and the delivery person had left as soon as the bell sounded.

That same day, a guy with a clipboard had knocked on the door earlier, and I was writing in the office. Perhaps, that is why UPS made me a little jumpy.

The clipboard man came back that evening while Dan was washing dishes and I was reading on couch.

At the doorbell, I crouched beneath the sofa. Dan crawled over to me.

"Is he gone?" he whispered. (Later, Dan said he was only crawling around the floor to make fun of me.)

I don't know what is wrong with us (or, probably, mostly me). Maybe we don't like answering the door for the same reason we don't like answering the phone. Leave a brochure, and we will think about our decision to give money to your cause.

Otherwise, we end up with fast food discount cards we never use or $5 "cookie mix" that consists of a bag of flour and Quaker Instant Oats.

"Maybe we should just get a sign that says, 'No Solicitors,' so we don't have to crawl around all the time," Dan suggested the other day.

"Maybe we should just get a sign that says, 'No People in General,'" I said.

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

Check out more of my work in:

Becky the Hulk

Today, I will be admitting something rather embarrassing about myself. When I get hungry, I behave like the Incredible Hulk. And because (as I've already established in previous posts) I'm neurotic, I also experience anxiety with my hunger pangs. This is usually played out with a few panicked outbursts like, "You never feed me," or "You never let me eat," accompanied by an overwhelming sense that I am being held prisoner by the person (often my husband, Dan) who is, according to my perception at the time, withholding sustenance.

This is another reason I would not survive on a desert island, like in Lost, without normal eating times or abundant food sources. It has become a joke at my house . . . except when it is actually happening.

The last time I had a Hulk moment was right after Dan and I had gone biking, and of course, I had worked up an appetite after all that exercise. I came storming out of our office, found Dan playing on his phone, and started rambling on and on about the evils of technology and how we are addicted to our phones now and can't even focus on our daily lives and . . .

Dan sat me down at the kitchen table and put a bowl leftover stir-fry in front of me. As soon I ate the first few bites, I started to calm down. My heart rate slowed. I am sure my blood pressure dropped. Dan was just happy my mouth was full, and I couldn't talk anymore.

"Now do you feel stupid?" he asked. (He has gotten pretty good at judging when it's safe to start joking around again.)

I am not the only one with this condition. In fact, there is a whole series of Snickers commercials that are based on the idea that we are not ourselves when we are hungry.

One New York Times article equates this phenomenon with Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors (an analogy I desperately wished I had made first), you know, the man-eating plant who says, "Feed me, Seymour!" The article goes on to say that new labels like "food swings" and "hangry" have entered the lexicon just to describe this experience.

Some researchers believe that hunger causes a dip in serotonin, the chemical in the brain that helps regulate anger. A drop in serotonin levels can create a "whirlwind of uncontrollable emotions including anxiety, stress, and anger."

So now that I know there is a scientific basis for my craziness (not an excuse, just a basis), what can I do about it?

I have been known to tell my students I need to eat a few bites first before asking me questions at lunch. Last year, my sixth grade volunteers, not wanting to see cranky Mrs. Duggan at lunchtime, would remind me, "Eat first. Then you can tell us what to do."

I have built in snack times throughout my day. My desk is stocked at school, and I occasionally sneak bites in the middle of teaching classes. Even as I write this post, I am munching on sugar snap peas. This makes road trips really interesting.

"Time for my mid-morning snack!"

"You just ate three hours ago!"

"Do you want me to be crazy Becky or nice Becky?"

I try to keep this unattractive side of me under control, but occasionally I take it out on anyone I perceive to be hindering my quest for food. If you start noticing strange behavior, it's best if don't ask me what is wrong. You are probably witnessing the first stages of my transformation, and I've been known to uncharacteristically bite heads off when asked this question. (And I might literally bite it off considering this is all brought on by hunger). It is best to just get me to the nearest restaurant.

Otherwise, it's going to be HULK SMASH!

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

Check out more of my work in:

My Sincerest Apologies . . .

Dear Drivers (mostly male) Who Yell At Passing Pedestrians and/or Bikers,

I want to apologize for not paying you the attention you deserve. Obviously, you are trying to announce your presence for some reason while I am jogging in my neighborhood or biking to Lucky Peak. You must be trying to accomplish something important, or you wouldn't be risking your limbs, leaning out your window, and shouting in such an urgent fashion. I am so sorry that I continuously put your life in jeopardy by not heeding your existence as you attempt to startle random people who are enjoying a little outdoor recreation.

So here is your chance. Please, let me know. What can we joggers, bikers, skateboarders, walkers, etc., do to help you?

Are you worried about me? Perhaps I am about to be attacked by a cougar?

Are you trying to make people crash? That would be a lovely sentiment, and it speaks volumes about your character.

Maybe you think I'm cute (because I kind of am), and girls like nothing more than unintelligible yelling to draw attention to their cuteness.

Or do you just think it's funny when I roll my eyes and mutter, "douche bag," under my breath? You do know what a douche bag really is, right? It's not exactly meant as a compliment, and I'm sure that fine upstanding boys like you—even though you might be frat boys—would not actually want to be douche bags in your next lives.

Here is the one glitch in your plot to get this pedestrian's attention.

I can't hear you!

Maybe your objective is to insult me in some way, but I can't hear you.

Maybe you are trying to scare people into inadvertently performing some Jackass stunt. But I can't hear you well enough to be that startled.

Maybe you are extremely articulate and have just imparted some profound wisdom, but—still—I can't hear you.

I should apologize again though. I believe I am being hypocritical. My friends and I did think it was kind of funny to yell at pedestrians while riding in cars in junior high . . . in JUNIOR HIGH! Nobody wants to be equated with junior high humor, not even most junior highers.

My fantasy is that I will someday catch up with you at Lucky Peak or DeMeyer Park or on the greenbelt somewhere.

If that ever happens, don't be surprised if I say, "May I ask what you hollered at me as you roared by in your gas-guzzling Ford F150 while I was riding my environmentally-conscious bicycle? (Which, by the way, might make me a better person than you.) But I am sure you said something quite intelligent, maybe even life-changing, since you insisted on shouting at me in a way that I couldn't possibly understand."

Again, my sincerest apologies,

Becky Turner-Duggan

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

Check out more of my work in: