The Great Christmas Light Caper (Re-Post from 12/29/06)

In Jill's Words is taking a break for the holiday and for Becky's tenth anniversary. Enjoy reading this Christmas re-post.

Like many Christmas-celebrating Americans, I look forward to my annual holiday light-viewing experience. I love the myriad of mini multicolored luminaries that twinkle in the nighttime sky at this time of year. I have yet to trim my own house with lights, but I certainly enjoy the prolific radiant fruits of other people’s labors.

After marrying my husband three years ago, my Christmas light-viewing jaunts have become much more adventurous.

My husband takes a militaristic approach to looking at Christmas lights. About three or four days before Christmas Eve, he plans our route by looking up addresses in the local newspaper’s holiday light insert and website. Then he draws up an itinerary that includes the most logical order of houses within a ten-mile radius of our own home.

On Christmas Eve, I navigate as Dan roars through the neighborhoods, making sure we see every house on our list, careful not to backtrack or look at any house twice.

From my perch in the passenger's seat, I watch the blur of lights whiz by as my husband whips around the cul-de-sacs, entertaining himself by slamming on the brakes on the icy patches, sending our car into fishtail down the street.

This year, I convinced Dan to split our trip into two evenings. We looked at lights once on our anniversary, conveniently five days before Christmas, and once on Christmas Eve. The light-viewing during our anniversary proved to be rather disappointing for Dan, however, since the streets were too dry to do any “Tokyo Drifting.”

The icy roads on Christmas Eve were much more rewarding for Dan, and I was able to see many kaleidoscopic displays. Every once in a while, Dan interjected, “Ha ha! That was a good one!” when our tires would slip around on the glacial neighborhood streets. Sure, my knuckles turned white as I clutched the car door handle in terror, but it was all worth it to hear the enthusiastic Christmas spirit in my husband’s voice.

Never mind that we did backtrack and pass a few houses more than once or twice, typically at least a venial sin according to Dan’s logic. In fact, we drove by the nice couple, who were passing out candy canes dressed up like Santa and Mrs. Claus, three times. They stood in the driveway to their house and waved and smiled at us, never indicating that they thought we were at all crazy. By the third time, I buried my head in my black pea coat and sank down into my seat as Dan said, “I think we’ve seen these houses before.”

In truth, driving around to look at Christmas lights with my husband is far more fun than looking at them alone. For one thing, Dan has a better sense of direction than I do. Yes, we saw a few houses more than once this year; but when I used to go out alone, I would drive by the same house at least six or seven times, probably looking more like a stalker than a Christmas light-seeker.

Every activity as a married person is an adventure. Even something as simple as looking at Christmas lights takes on a life of its own with a spouse. But I can’t think of a more amusing and enjoyable way to create Christmas traditions and memories.

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

Confessions of a Failed Gift Wrapper (Re-post from 12/29/10)

In Jill's Words is taking a break for the holiday and for Becky's tenth anniversary. Enjoy reading this Christmas re-post. 

I am the worst gift wrapper in the world. Most of my gifts are wrapped in pieced-together paper. My excuse is that I am recycling scraps of wrapping, but the truth is I just have a habit of underestimating the amount of paper needed.

My husband is a gift wrapping master. I think it has to do with his engineer brain. That meticulous, patient, visual-spatial brain that allows him to spend hours staring at computer code also transforms him into the Martha Stewart of gift wrapping at Christmas time.

"Look at the fancy design I made with this ribbon," Dan says proudly, holding up a perfectly wrapped present, topped with a cutely looped red bow.

I admire his work and smile at him encouragingly, thankful that he has so eagerly completed this task which means there is one less item on my holiday to-do list.

Dan and I barely made it through our first Christmas together as husband and wife before he started taking on all of the gift-wrapping assignments. Whenever we have to wrap gifts for family or friends, Dan immediately volunteers his talents before I can even offer.

His gifts are the only gifts I am permitted to wrap anymore. A typical Christmas morning finds Dan examining his presents from me - the wrinkled paper, the scraps of jagged wrapping on those troublesome ends that have to be folded up like a paper airplane (I was never very good at making those either), the gobs of tape with bits of hair and rug debris stuck to the bottom.

"That looks pretty good this time . . ." he says, furrowing his brow.

Not only am I the worst gift wrapper, but I am also the most conspicuous gift wrapper.

First of all, Dan knows exactly where all of his gifts are hidden, and it's only because of a strict code of honor that he does not go looking for them (and because he already knows what he is getting year after year since he closely monitors our credit card statements - another byproduct of his engineer brain).

"You'll never find them. They are hidden somewhere you would never go," I boasted this Christmas.

"You mean under the bed in the doll room?"

It didn't help that when I went to hide his presents this year, I slammed the garage door and ran past him in a blur, shouting behind me, "Stay where you are!"

Along the same lines, when I go to wrap his gifts, I hop over to wherever he is in the house and say in a sing-song voice, "Don't follow me . . . I'm doing something secret . . . I'm locking the door . . ."

"The doll room doesn't have a lock . . ."

"Shoot!" I say. "Well then, don't come in any closed doors . . ."

By contrast, Dan disappears (which doesn't alarm me at all because Dan disappears quite often - refer to my blog post entitled, "My Husband, the Ninja"), secretly emerges a few minutes later, and sets his elegantly wrapped gifts under the tree.

Once, I told Dan a story about one Christmas during my early college years when my mother forced me to volunteer at the Salvation Army. I was spending a lot of time sitting around the house, whining about my weight and my appearance, and my mother was tired of my self-absorbed ramblings.

"You are going to spend some time helping others who have real problems," my mother said.

She sent me to the Salvation Army. I was assigned to gift wrapping duty.

“They actually let you wrap gifts?” my husband asked incredulously.

"That’s not the point. My mother taught me a lot about the detriment of self-pity that year."

“Still," muttered Dan, "they let you wrap gifts . . . Did they see the finished product?”

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

The Secrets to a Successful Marriage

This Friday, Dan and I will celebrate our ten-year anniversary. Now I realize what you are all thinking.

"You look way too young to have been married ten years. You must have gotten married when you were just kids."

Yes, yes, I know. Dan and I have good genes. And we didn't get married right out of high school, by the way. We didn't even get married right out of college.

As my brother said at one time, lamenting the fact that he had not yet found "the right girl," "I'll just have to wait until I'm old to get married . . . kind of like you did." Ultimately, he married a wonderful person.

Dan and I weren't that old when we married anyway. We were in line with the national average at the time. By Idaho standards though, we were considered ancient. (For Idaho women, the average marrying age is 23.4, the second youngest age in the nation. Yikes!)

I guess the real question is, how happy has our marriage been these ten years? And the answer is . . . very happy.

I can just hear the counterarguments.

"Well, Becky, if my husband talked as little as your husband, I'd have a happy marriage too."

Let me set the record straight. Dan talks a lot . . . to me. We are both oldest children. Believe me. We know how to stand up for ourselves. We are both stubborn. We are both certain that we are one-hundred-percent right about everything at all times. Our home is very vocal.

"Well, Becky, you and Dan live a very comfortable life without many challenges."

That is not true. During our first year of marriage, my mother died. And a few years later, my father remarried, and our family structure completely changed early in our marriage. We have dealt with the death of loved ones in other capacities throughout our marriage. And just last year, a cold case from my college days was solved, dredging up lots of old emotions from an extremely traumatic time. A few months ago, Dan had a bit of a health issue that at the moment was frightening but in the end turned out alright. So Dan and I have gone through "stuff" over the years.

Not to mention, Dan lost two wedding rings within the first couple of weeks of our marriage. Now some people would take that as a sign of doom and destruction. But not us. We thought it was hilarious. And here we are, ten years later.

So like any young, arrogant couple, we feel wise enough to share our secrets to a happy marriage. (In other words, we'll probably be much wiser in another twenty years. But right now, we think we know everything.)

1. If your spouse is a computer genius, give him/her all your passwords.
Last night, I told Dan I changed the pass code to my school's iPad.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I can't tell you. It's a secret."

"I have to know all your passwords so that I can fix stuff for you."

He was right. Having a computer geek spouse who can prevent you from throwing the latest technologies against the wall makes for a very happy marriage.

2. Don't have kids.
CRINGE. I can already hear the nasty comments. And for some of you, it's too late, and your family is  probably very happy. But children complicate things, including marriage. I am sure Dan and I could still be happy with kids (if my birth control stops working for some sad reason), but we don't have to test that theory right now. It doesn't mean everyone has to make the same choice, and maybe having kids made your marriage happier. So stop! Step away from the send button.

3. Move out of your parents' house way before you marry. Move out of your parents' town if possible.
Uh oh. Here is another controversial one, especially in Idaho. Things have changed since I was eighteen. I realize that nowadays this is not always economically feasible.

But in my house, here were the expectations. You graduate from high school; you leave home at eighteen; you work or go to school out of town and learn how to live on your own; you are completely financially independent by the time you graduate from college if not earlier.

Dan's path was the same. By the time we got married, we both knew how to pay our own bills, create a budget, cook for ourselves, go grocery shopping, and do laundry. That's not to say it never works any other way. But boy, it made that ultimate adult transition into marriage so much simpler for Dan and me.

Again, step away from the send button!

4. Have your own hobbies. You don't have to do everything your spouse does.
Dan and I are happy because we maintained a certain level of independence. He plays video games while I rehearse for the latest production. I stay at home and read or write while he goes snowboarding. We are supportive of one another too. When I got viral laryngitis a few months ago during a production, Dan offered to help out backstage, something he typically would avoid like the plague. But he knew my absence would cause some holes in the production, and spouses support each other in sickness and in health.

Those are my keys to a happy marriage after ten years. This list will probably change in another ten years. Please don't say, "The real key to a happy marriage is to have God as your foundation" because all I hear is "blah, blah, blah, cliché."

Step away from that send button!

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

Zip Lining For Turkey

Last year in my post "Trotting for Turkey," I wrote about running in a 5K every Thanksgiving with my husband, Dan, who is less than enthusiastic about running but still beats me every time.

This year, my indifferent husband and I received an e-mail after registering for the race, claiming that the event would "have a few new, fun twists including carrying a turkey and riding a zip line."

Each participant will receive a duffel bag with the event logo. Several frozen turkeys will be placed along the route. Runners and walkers who find and manage to carry them to the finish line are welcome to keep them. The race will end at the Challenge Course where participants will sail to a finish on the course’s zip line.

First of all, if you remember from "Trotting for Turkey," Dan and I rarely make it there in time to get the free swag, and even though they promise they will mail it to us, we have yet to receive several articles of Turkey-Trot-logo-imprinted clothing. So the duffel bag is in the mail . . . apparently.

But the "new, fun twist" that really didn't sound much fun to me, the acrophobic mountain biker, was "sailing to a finish" on a zip line.

"I'm sure it will be optional," my dad said in an e-mail.

"I think I'll pass on that option," I replied.

Dad: "Thought you might. What about Dan?"

Me: "Yeah, Dan. What about you?"

Dan: "I'll probably try it."

Me: "Just don't die."
 
In fact, not very many people opted to zip line which had probably less to do with serious cases of acrophobia and more to do with it being quite a process to prepare for a zip line, and no one wanted to stand out in the cold that long.

First, Dan had to sign his life away, and I had to sign as his witness—not the most comforting thing in the world.

Then, he had to "gird his loins" in some weird-looking harness. One of the course workers told him to make sure his furniture was in the right place.

He put on a helmet and was finally ready . . . to stand in line for about sixty minutes. And there were only about eight people in front of him.

Some of the other people in front of Dan had to be coaxed up to the platform, a set of two-by-fours held together by a few nails here and there. Dan, on the other hand, shimmied up the pole with no problem at all—like Nightcrawler from X-Men—and flew down the line, smiling . . . but not too big.

Calm and collected Dan wouldn't want to show too much enthusiasm for something now, would he?

Of course, not everyone had such a zen reaction to Dan's zip lining adventure, as you will hear in the video below. Just remember he is married to an acrophobe after all.

Dan The Zip Lining Machine

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

A Worthy Attempt at a Gratitude Journal

At the church Dan and I have been attending for the past few months, the minister suggested we keep a "Gratitude Journal" this week. As you might remember from last year's "The Obligatory Gratitude Post," I never seem to take these things too seriously despite my initial intentions.

At least I attempted the "homework" assigned by the minister. That's more than I can say about my husband, Dan, who rebels against organized religion by refusing to even fill in the blanks on the sermon notes. For ten years now, the church-homework-related conversations have gone a bit like this:

Me: "Are you going to do what Reverend so-and-so suggested this week?"

Dan: "Pssh! No."

Me: "It might be kind of fun or enlightening."

Dan: "Pssh! That's silly."

If Dan completes church homework 0% of the time, I probably do it about 5% of the time. And I like to fill in the sermon notes, not because of some guilt-ridden sense of duty, but because I am anal and a blank must be filled in or life just isn't worth living.

In honor of Thanksgiving, I decided to share the one church challenge I did finish. I apologize in advance for the superficiality of my gratitude journal. I'm just not very deep.

Sunday, November 24
I am grateful for high Cs and that I can hit one again.

Monday, November 25
I am grateful that my husband doesn't actually hate me like he did in that dream I had last night where he wanted to stay in separate hotel rooms. (A little insight into my neurotic dream issues.)

Tuesday, November 26
I am grateful for enthusiastic sixth graders who actually want to be in a musical this spring. (I must have written this after I spent much of my Thanksgiving break compiling materials and writing a script for this year's production.)

Wednesday, November 27
I am grateful that I did not see a cougar on my run this morning. I am not grateful for yellow air quality. (Boiseans will sympathize.)

Thursday, November 28
I am grateful that my husband is excited about zip-lining today even though I am scared too death for him here on the ground.

Friday, November 29
I am grateful that Dan and I had a quiet Thanksgiving, regardless of Dan's zip-lining.

Saturday, November 30
I am grateful that I boycotted Black Friday.

Yeah, that about covers it. If you want something more philosophical, I suggest you check out Facebook. It's a very thankful place right now. 'Tis the season.

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

Meet the Duggans: The Worst Groundskeepers in the Neighborhood

I sometimes wonder what our neighbors think about our yard. We have at least one neighbor who sprays terrible toxic chemicals on the weeds that grow up through the cracks at the end of our driveway. My husband, Dan, tries to get to them with the weed whacker before it gets to that point because we are kind of anti-Roundup types (if you hadn't already guessed). But we have a hard time beating our neighbor to the punch.

But that is summertime stuff. The fall brings about its own set of challenges.

A few weeks ago, I thought that particular neighbor was out of town. I hadn't seen him doing anyone's yard work for a while.

"Oh, he's here," Dan said. "I saw him judging our tree yesterday."

Dan was referring to a strangely shaped evergreen in the corner of our front yard. Resembling a green, hairy version of Monty Python's Black Knight, it hangs over the sidewalk and declares to all joggers and mothers with strollers, "None shall pass!" It has to violate some homeowners association ordinance.

The other day Dan said, "I trimmed up that tree."

"You did? So it's not blocking the sidewalk anymore?" I added, giggling at my own wit, "Did it say 'It's just a flesh wound!' when you cut its branches?"

"Not that tree."

"Oh."

We also have a leaf situation mostly due to the fact that neither of us ever feels like raking. Dan did end up raking leaves last weekend. My sacred belief is you shouldn't have to do yard work but once a week. Anything else just seems like landscape overkill.

Friday evening, I exited through our front door for the first time all week and was greeted by a deluge of fallen leaves. Unable to see our paved walkway, I kicked through the leaves until I got to the sidewalk. There was an bright side though. One of my favorite fall activities is hearing leaves crunch under my feet anyway.

As I jogged around the neighborhood, I noticed that no other yard was as buried as ours, not even close.

"I think we might need to rake," I told Dan when I returned. "I almost drowned in a sea of leaves when I went for a run."

"It's not that bad, is it?"

I shrugged, "I guess it will keep solicitors away."

The truth is neither one of us have much initiative when it comes to fall yard or house work. At this time of the year, we would rather stay inside and watch the Syfy channel. But, partially due to this lack of motivation, staying inside was getting a little uncomfortable too.

A few days ago, the temperatures outside starting dropping to twenty and below in the mornings. We had the thermostat set to seventy-three, but our house was not getting above sixty-seven. We spent a lot of time thinking about whether or not it would snap out of it and work eventually. Then we spent more time wondering if we should call the furnace people or try other things first. Then Dan read owner's manual which suggested changing the filter and/or thermostat batteries. Finally, after about thirty-six hours of no heat and researching and weighing options and coming up with Plans A, B, and C, Dan changed the filter and batteries.

"The temperature's going up!" Dan said a few hours after the filter change.

"Imagine that. You follow the directions in the manual and. . ."

Then he began to wonder whether or not the problem had been the filter or the batteries. So he removed the new batteries, replaced them with the old batteries, and the furnace kept working.

"It must have been the filter."

"Just like the manual said," I pointed out. "Now we have a working heater and clean air."

What more could we want? Maybe we should get to that tree sometime . . . "Tis but a scratch!"

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

Yoga Pants and Feminist Experiments

Last Saturday, my husband asked if I would like to go on a date, our first since I had been sick.

"Okay, I'll go," I said. "But I am going to wear what I have on." 

I still was not feeling completely well, and I was very comfortable in my yoga pants and oversize lime green t-shirt.

"You don't want to at least change into jeans?"

"What is that supposed to mean? I think I look just fine in yoga pants."

"You do look cute in yoga pants. It's just . . . well . . . it's not really date night attire."

Up until that moment, I may have considered changing my clothes. Instead, I decided to wage a battle against society's assumptions about the way a woman is supposed to dress. Dan, my husband, calls these campaigns my "feminist experiments." 

Once when we were arguing (yes, Dan and I argue sometimes; that's what happens when two alphas live together), Dan mentioned that he didn't like me doing my "feminist experiments" on him. He didn't mean this as a compliment, but I made the expression my own and have used it with pride ever since.

"You're not supposed to think I'm being funny when I'm angry with you," Dan said.

But the term stuck.

"If you're not going to shower, I'm not going to change," I announced. "I want to be comfortable."

"You could change into jeans. Jeans are comfortable."

"And I'm not putting on make-up."

Dan decided he couldn't take me to a nice restaurant even though it's Boise, Idaho, and people wear yoga pants all the time to nice restaurants. So we ate at Souper!Salad! which was fine with me since my appetite was not quite 100%.

"We're getting old. We go to buffets all the time," Dan said. (We had just been to Primo's the night before.)

"I still won't set foot in anything that says chuck or wagon or corral in the name," I said.

"If you would wear something other than yoga pants . . . "

That is when I started singing (because I could finally sing again) from my favorite feminist experiment, Free to Be You and Me:

"When we grow up, will I be pretty?/Will you be big and strong?/Will I wear dresses that show off my knees?/Will you wear trousers twice as long?/Well, I don't care if I'm pretty at all./And I don't care if you never get tall./I like what I look like, and you're nice small./We don't have to change at all."

"That song means I am allowed to wear yoga pants if I want."

The next day, Dan and I were getting ready for church, and Dan noticed I was wearing my wool pea coat. He, on the other hand, was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt.

"Should I wear my wool coat too?" he asked.

"We are going to church, you know. All that fuss over yoga pants, and you won't even dress up a little for God."

Who is looking too casual now?

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

Heartbreak and a Little Grace

I saw a post on Facebook about "God's perfect timing." I admit I scoffed a little. I was recently a victim of very bad timing, timing that probably didn't have much to do with God since we tend to attribute things to God that we probably shouldn't.

I was supposed to sing the lead in an operetta at the end of October. I had been preparing the role since last year, and I was so excited to sing the part. My voice was in terrific shape, and I felt so healthy.

Around the first part of production week though, I felt a dreaded drip down the back of my throat. But I wasn't worried. I had sung through colds and allergies tons of times.

Then about three days into my head cold, I woke up and knew it had settled . . . in my throat. I was swollen. Any singer who has ever had laryngitis will know what I am talking about.

I still wasn't that worried. It was a head cold, which meant it would move to a new part of my body the next day.

It didn't.

So I went to the ENT. I would have to go on steroids, but it was the price I was willing to pay for opening night (which was the next day). The inflammation in my vocal cords was due to a virus and lots of mucus. I had nothing permanently wrong with me, no vocal abuse, strain, bruising, or nodes.

But the steroids didn't work. (I am probably the only person in the history of the world who is completely unaffected by 200 mg of Prednisone.) Neither did the 1600 mg of Advil or Mucinex that was later added to my cocktail. Neither did the steam treatments or iced lemon water or Throat Coat Tea.

My voice never recovered enough to sing during the run of the production. My heart was broken.

Eventually, I had to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to get to sing this part, this role that had become one my favorites over the past few months.

What does it mean when something that had seemed so serendipitous doesn't work out?

I say it means nothing.

"What is the reason for this? Doesn't everything happen for a reason?" I asked Dan (in a barely audible, very croaky voice) as he was driving me back from the theater.

"That's silly. There are lots of senseless things that happen in this world," he said.

Nature was taking its course. There was no miraculous intervention by a higher power or by the universe—just a virus that had to make its way out of my system on its own terms.

But here is what I discovered during this ordeal. People were there at the right time and in the right place. Maybe that is how God operates, through the people around us. Let me just throw out my entire Baptist upbringing about "sin nature" and postulate a more humanist approach. Rather than being a victim of a deaf God, I was a beneficiary of the inherent goodness of humankind.

• My friend and fellow cast member gracefully rose to the occasion and learned the role within a couple of hours.
• My husband, Dan, stepped in to cover one of the backstage jobs that opened up because of the giant snowball effect my absence was creating.
• Another friend followed up on my condition with the ENTs in her office throughout the week to see if there was anything else I could possibly do to bring down the inflammation.
• One of the cast members gave me a "get better" care package just because he is my friend.
• I received priesthood blessings from some of the LDS cast members that instilled in me a sense of peace and resolve.
• People from all belief systems and walks of life sent me countless prayers and positive thoughts.
• I was given a treasure chest and a scarf and sea shells and chocolate and a note that provided me with the confidence to try this performing thing again sometime. (I was ready to throw in the towel and never audition for another show ever.)
• The director handled the whole situation in an amazingly calm, gracious, and professional way, some of the best crisis management I have ever seen.
• The cast gave me beautiful flowers and a get well card at strike.
• And the male lead brought me out for the final bow on closing night even though I couldn't even muster a squeak by that time.

I made some of the best friends of my life. Nobody judged me or blamed me for causing such a dramatic ending to our production. Everyone was genuinely concerned for my well-being. And I got the impression that it went beyond simple sympathy, that my fellow cast and crew members were so empathetic, their hearts broke right along with mine.

The director put it best: "This is what a theater family does for each other." And she was right.

Everything may not have meaning, but I can learn from anything even if it doesn't make sense.

I heard Anne Lamott say once, "I asked a priest after Newtown, 'Is there meaning after Newtown?' And he said, 'Not yet.' Meaning will come."

Even so, I just wanted to experience and impart the art and beauty of that music. But maybe meaning will come . . . later. And even if it doesn't, at least I experienced a little grace.

Get Well Gifts

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POST RERUN: The Halloween Candy Dilemma (FROM 11/4/11)

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?

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POST RERUN: Meta: The Art of Self Reference (FROM 9/30/11)

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."

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A Music Teacher's Pet Peeve

Why do some people feel the overwhelming desire to dink around on unattended instruments?

Children do this a lot, and I can be a little more sympathetic as an elementary music teacher to a child's desire to explore sounds and express creativity. But this doesn't prevent me from closing the piano cover when one of my students "visits" me during the lunch hour and sneakily slides onto the piano bench while my back is turned.

I expect children to try to get away with this. But adults? The grown-ups who do have the nerve to plunk away on unoccupied instruments probably shouldn't. In other words, these ivory-ticklers are typically not the next Chopin or even Liberace.

In my music room, I try to instill in children that our classroom instruments—the piano, Orff instruments, small percussion instruments, my guitar—are not toys. They are not there to create chaotic noise. They are for making music, and if they are not making music or beautiful sounds, they should not be played.

Most of my students get this (at least while I am present in the room). A former student visited me the other day and brought a friend from high school. Her friend (who had not be one of my students) started playing around on the temple blocks.

"Hey," my former student said before I uttered a word, "stop playing those. They're not yours."

See, I've trained my students well.

Now if only I could train adults . . .

People have played little ditties on the piano they learned in high school while I am trying to set up for a program. (You all remember that simplified version of the Richard Marx song . . . "Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you." It's not so prodigious that you can play it now at age forty.)

Parents have come to my classroom to ask me about volunteer opportunities only to be tempted by the shiny glockenspiels on my shelves.

I have even seen people encourage children to play around on instruments set out for a music program. (I guess they don't understand that these instruments can cost thousands of dollars.)

I have been to restaurants and hotels where an open piano seems to be an invitation to any Joe Schmoe off the street (who usually ends up giving us his emotional rendition of "Heart and Soul").

Trust me, no one wants to hear that from anyone over thirteen.

So just a little advice to our wannabe musician children (and adults)—before you make a beeline to an instrument in a music classroom, public place, rehearsal hall, etc., consider the following:

1) Have you asked permission?
2) Are you sure you are that good, that we will really benefit from your opus on the auto harp?
3) Am I in the room? Because if I am, please remember that I have been around sound all day long, and sometimes a few moments of silence is the most beautiful music.

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When Smoke is in Your Bedroom . . .

I have been reading Matthew Quick's The Silver Linings Playbook (Yes! It is as good as the movie, so open a book once in a while, people!) and have, on several occasions, said to my husband, Dan, "You should practice being kind rather than right." (Read the book, people!)

My married friends will recognize that this quotation is highly appropriate while on the journey of matrimonial bliss. However, as I found out this week, it works both ways.

I am currently in rehearsals for a musical theater production . . . which means I am pretty tired right now . . . which means the night terrors are back. Night terrors rarely interrupt my sleep, but my odd behavior and blood curdling screams do, unfortunately, wake up Dan.

Yesterday, Dan told me I had another strange episode about two nights ago. This time I didn't scream. But I did start yelling at Dan about smoke in the room. I insisted I could smell it and see it over the bed.

Dan turned on the light.

"Look! There is no smoke, Becky."

"Stop telling me there is no smoke in the room! I know when there is smoke in the room!"

I continued to yell about smoke for a few minutes, becoming increasingly frustrated with Dan's obliviousness to this hazardous situation.

When I started to come out of it, I still insisted that there had, in fact, been smoke in the room. I just couldn't see it anymore.

"Why would I have thought there was smoke in this room when there wasn't?!"

"Did I think something was on fire?" I asked yesterday morning, after he finished recounting this latest installment in my night terrors saga.

"No, you just kept saying there was smoke was over my head."

"Did I think you were smoking cigarettes in bed or something?"

"I don't know what you were thinking," he said. "You need to practice being kind rather than right . . . while you sleepwalk."

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Winning an Award and Going a Little Crazy

Saturday morning I received some exciting news. I had placed third in the best local blogger category in Boise Weekly's "Best of Boise 2013." I think that's cool. I haven't published anything, other than my blog posts, for over a year. I don't advertise on my blog, so all of this without corporate sponsors or print media, just my 128 likes on Facebook and me.

"Great, now more people will read about me," was my husband Dan's response.

When Dan looked up from his phone to find me running around the living room sofa, he suggested we go for a jog around the neighborhood.

He regretted that decision when I shouted down the street, "Woo hoo! Go pick up the latest Boise Weekly! Third place, best local blogger! That's me!"

"I should write edgier," I said to Dan as we rounded a corner. "Maybe I should swear more, you know, be more like I am at home."

I continued to chatter on nonsensically throughout our run. (It's what I do when I'm excited . . . and nervous, happy, frustrated. Actually, it's pretty much how I handle most situations.)

"Don't make eye contact!" I said, punching Dan in the arm as we ran by our Tea Party neighbors whose bumper stickers on their SUV read, "Silence is Consent" and "Yes! Yes! Yes! For Education."

On the other end of the spectrum: "Yes, more liberals in our neighborhood!" I yelled as we ran by a car with a bunch of tree-hugging bumper stickers.

"They're from California," Dan said, pointing to the license plate.

I ignored him.

"Conversations kill . . ." I sang to Dan. (It was playing on my iPod and seemed appropriate at the time.)

Dan regarded me in silence as I muddled through the lyrics of the chorus and then nodded his head, "Yeah . . . "

And that crazy, muddled display of strangeness, my faithful readers, is meant to illustrate how excited and honored I was to win third best local blogger in Boise Weekly's "The Best of Boise." Just think, you technically have just read an "award-winning" blog.

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Best Local Blogger, Third Place

The Day iTunes Kept Me from Blogging

The last twenty minutes, time I could have spent blogging about something witty and uplifting, was instead spent yelling at my computer (and my husband, Dan the Software Engineer—guilt by association). The source of my frustration was an iTunes update that lists every single podcast on the iCloud, in other words, every single podcast I have ever downloaded. I listen to a lot of podcasts, and I now have titles from 2007 (we're talking hundreds) listed in my podcast library.

This happened after an update to my iTunes music library a while ago, and Dan figured out how to hide the iCloud listings. I am pretty sure he would have figured out the podcast thing too except that I spent twenty minutes stomping around the house, shouting about the clutter on my computer screen.

"Don't yell at me," Dan said, claiming no responsibility for the computer world whatsoever. "It's not my fault. I don't work at Apple."

I really hate clutter.

"It's probably just a bug. iTunes usually breaks stuff in its updates and then fixes it later in another update."

Before you assume that I am just an old gen-Xer Luddite who doesn't like change and can't adjust to yet another technological innovation, let me say that iOS 7 is just fine with me. I downloaded it the other day onto my iPad which, by the way, I still call the i-Maxi-Pad because I haven't bought into the whole corporate monopoly Apple tries to create with making you buy its products to run its software. (Dan and I do not own iPhones.)

I also don't tape my mouth shut and throw my body in front of a bulldozer in protest every time Facebook changes it interface. In other words, I can go with the flow . . . just not this morning when I was trying to blog.

Here is how I solved my problem for the time being. I switched to the "My Podcasts" tab (although they probably don't call it a tab in the Apple world since everything is so slick and innovative). It looks different from the "List" option, but it works the same. Perhaps, if I don't yell at him or the computer anymore, Dan will figure it out eventually. If not, I'll adjust like the perfectly-comfortable-with-changing-technology gen-Xer I am.

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It's Time to Start Acting Like an Adult . . . Sigh

This year, I have had to accept the fact that I am now an adult. It's probably about time considering I'm thirty-six years old. But it's amazing how easily one can put off adulthood when one does not have children.

I have flown under the radar for about twelve years. It helps that I still look pretty young, so people are often unaware that I have been living in the adult world for a while now. But I guess a person can only be "new to the profession" for so long.

Over the past year or so, I have been encouraged to take on more adult responsibilities in my job, such as leadership and organizational roles. Occasionally, people even come to me for advice . . . to me who still feels like the young, new kid on the block. What's that all about?

When I was given the choice between two columns of professional duties—a mentor column verses a need-to-be-mentored column—I was encouraged to sign up under the mentor column. I did, a little flattered and a little under duress. My "But I don't know anything" protestations were met with "You silly girl" shakes of the head.

Just in the last month, I have received asked three times for my input on department issues. I have been asked to explain and present on two different occasions in front of my peers. I hate speaking in front of adults. I will perform, sometimes half-naked, on stage in front of 1000-member audiences. But when it comes to sharing my expertise, if it could be called that, I much prefer the younger generation (i.e. five-year-olds, etc.)

One of my former student's parents caught up with me this year and was telling me how much her children missed me at their new school.

"Mrs. Duggan was the best . . . " they would say when they came home.

"You have quite a reputation, you know," the parent said.

I guess I should just accept the fact that I finally know what I'm doing, and I should also be flattered that other people think I know what I'm doing.

I read once that every professional's biggest fear until retirement is that he/she will be found out, that he/she will be revealed to be a fraud, that everyone will eventually know that he/she never really knew how to function in his/her job.

I've got a ways to go until retirement, and that just doesn't sound like a very pleasant existence, so I guess I had better sit back and start enjoying this adult responsibility thing.

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The Mountain Biking (Almost) Disaster

Last weekend, I crashed while mountain biking. Actually, because I am not a thrill-seeker and probably have no business biking on hilly surfaces, I really just fell over. But the fall gave me some gnarly-looking scratches that have elicited sympathy from adults and children alike.

My husband, Dan, and I loaded up the car Saturday morning for one last mountain biking trip before the end of the season.

Or as I put it, "This is the last time we will have any fun, ever!" (I get a little dramatic when summer comes to an end.)

I had to go to a quick rehearsal that afternoon before hitting the road, and as I was leaving the rehearsal I was sent away with several disconcerting comments.

"Be careful," "Don't hurt yourself," and "Don't break your leg."

I shook it off, knowing that most of what I do consists of riding under five miles an hour. I am not above 'bailing' (or jumping off my bike) if I feel too out of control.

Dan and I rode the first trail without any problem. It has a fairly steep incline, and I used to struggle with it when I first started biking. So when Dan offered to scope out a second, more technical trail for me, I said, "No need to scope! I think I can just do it!"

The truth is, I could do about two-thirds of the trail. I had to take it slow because the path was riddled with large tree roots and rocks. It wasn't until the rocky, root covered path started to climb and wind around that the adventure began.

On the easier part of the trail, I told Dan he could go on without me since, as I have already established, I am slow and very cautious.

"The tree roots and I are fine. You can keep going."

Then I hit a tree root while trying to maneuver a switchback on a steep uphill, lost my momentum, and fell into a tree on the left side of the trail. Again, I wasn't going that fast, so it was more like I leaned into the tree. But my balance was thrown, and I started to topple off the ridge.

Most of my faithful readers will recall my gut-wrenching fear of heights, and the two things about mountain biking that terrify me most are that a) I will lose control of my bike because I hate losing control, and I am a control freak and b) I will fall down a mountain.

I began to do "b."

Luckily, the underbrush on the side of the hill caught me, and I didn't fall very far.

"Dan!" I yelled.

I had almost caught up with him by this time, and he was able to hear me right away. He rushed over and pulled me (and my bike) out of the trees. I walked the rest of the trail.

As we pedaled down the gravel road back to our car, I started feeling something weird on my leg.

"Is there a bug biting my shin?" I asked Dan. "It feels really tight down there."

"I don't see anything, but I can't really see your shin right now."

Back at the car, this is what we found.

This picture does not do my injury justice. It looks much worse in person.

It was after this that I started hearing about the dangers of mountain biking. I never thought of my type of mountain biking as dangerous at all. Daring and dangerous don't exist in my lexicon.

But, nonetheless, a lot of people had stories of fractures, broken necks and backs, road rash, and trips to the emergency room. Some people insisted that they would rather their children dirt bike than mountain bike.

"I don't think I'm that aggressive on my bike," I replied, but in the back of my head I was reminded of the surprised look on our doctor's face when Dan and I told her we were mountain bikers, but we had never broken or sprained any bones.

The friends who had cautioned me when I left rehearsal said things like, "I thought we told you not to break a leg."

I am proud to say that I got right back on my bike and rode several other trails that weekend without mishap. I did get lost one day when Dan and I split up on a trail, but that is another story altogether.

I went back to school the Tuesday after Labor Day, and all of the kids and teachers at school were very concerned.

"What did you do to your leg?" and I told them the whole terrific story. I realized I was sounding quite adventurous.

"I thought your cat got you," said one kid.

"No, it was much cooler than that."

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(RE-POST FROM 8/27/06) The Legendary Globe of Death

After attending the fair last weekend and watching an escape artist free herself from "The Water Torture Chamber," I was reminded of a blog post I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy this re-post from 2006.

Last weekend, my husband and I went on our annual venture to the state fair. Dan and I are not overly eager fair aficionados. One of our first dates took place at the Idaho State Fair. We listened to an a cappella boy band croon cover songs, shared our first Pronto Pup strawberry lemonade, and watched the amusing antics at the late night hypnotist show.

It was also on that outing that Dan introduced me to the heavenly gooeyness of the Ice Cream Potato – not a true potato in the root vegetable sense of the word, but ice cream shaped as a potato, doused in cocoa, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup. With the invention of the Ice Cream Potato, Idaho has truly lived up to its reputation as the cultivator of famous potatoes.

So it’s out of a sappy sentimentality rather than a love for genuine western tradition that Dan and I visit the fair every year.

This year, Dan persuaded me to watch the circus act that the fair advertises as a thrilling daredevil spectacle. I’m not much of an advocate of thrilling daredevil spectacles. But I’m not much of a fair ride enthusiast either, and my choices were either watch a thrilling daredevil spectacle or get stuck with my husband in a metal cage that spun on its side, ascended to a vertical 50 feet above the ground before turning its passengers upside down and plummeting into oblivion.

This thrilling daredevil spectacle was no Cirque du Soleil. According to my keen observations that evening, a fair circus act consists of a human size hamster wheel that swings like a pendulum between two rickety metal posts and a steel sphere that the performers proudly call “The Legendary Globe of Death.”

A male and female, clad in shimmering spandex jumpsuits, who gravitate toward feats of psychosis rather than the daring bravery the fair brochure advertises, spent thirty nail biting minutes performing acts of insanity inside this hamster wheel and Globe of Death.

At one point, the male performer covered his head with an executioner’s hood and balanced himself on top of the wheel while it was suspended above the ground. As the crowd cheered in amazement, I looked on in horror, covering my mouth to prevent myself from shouting a not-so-amazed exclamation at the man.

“They don’t even use safety nets!” Dan said, sounding much too enthusiastic about this realization.

Indeed they did not. A fair circus act does not need safety nets. Instead the performers stand below the apparatus so that they may catch one another if mishap ensues.

Before the performers entered The Legendary Globe of Death, they told the audience that insurance companies refuse to cover them so if we would kindly have our photos taken in the steel globe after the performance, all proceeds would cover their emergency medical costs.

Then they entered the legendary globe on motorcycles.

I watched the motorcycles zoom around, upside down, vertically, horizontally, diagonally . . . through my fingers.

"You can't see what they're doing if you cover your eyes." My husband has a knack for pointing out the obvious.

Once the dolorous spectacle ended, the crowd ruptured into applause, and I allowed my face muscles to finally relax after a half-hour of being frozen in fright.

"So, you want to get your picture taken in the Globe of Death?" Dan said.

I responded with a dirty look.

"It's fun to watch these sorts of things with you. It's kind of cute."

Another dirty look, "I'm glad I could be so entertaining."

Then we finished off our evening with an Ice Cream Potato. And the nightmarish visions of The Legendary Globe of Death faded into obscurity.

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What Made Me Happy This Summer

I decided to keep this week's post simple since I am back at school full force, spending what spare time I have preparing my classroom and lessons. Ready or not, my five hundred-plus students will be darkening (or brightening, depending on your perspective) my doorway this Tuesday.

So here it is. These are things that made me happy this summer.

1. Vacationing in Hawaii
Do you really have to ask why?

2. No classes, no extra jobs
This summer, I took my neighbor's advice who said to me about a year ago, "You should relax in the summer. You work really hard." He didn't have to be too persuasive. I have spent the last few summers music directing, performing, teaching voice, taking three-credit courses crammed into nine days. So this year, I finished up my "extra job," a music directing gig, the last week of school, and then I relaxed. (I did, however, write the occasional blog post.)

Of course, "no classes, no extra jobs" means I will be taking on extra responsibilities during the school year. My first extra project starts this Monday. It's just in my nature. I don't enjoy relaxing for that long.

3. Running on the greenbelt
During the summer, I love my morning runs on the greenbelt. I just don't get around to it as often as I'd like during the fall. This past week, considering the stretch I usually jog, I could have literally been running with the bulls this past week.

4. Biking & hiking
Because I did not take on extra responsibilities, Dan and I had a lot more time to go biking and hiking this summer. The best thing about hiking in Hawaii is the lack of large mammal predators, in other words, no cougars and wolves and bears—oh my!

5. Swimming lessons
I am not the strongest swimmer, and Dan was a competitive swimmer, a lifeguard, and a swimming teacher in high school. When we travel, I often ask him to give me "swimming lessons" in the hotel pool. We had a lot of water in Hawaii to work with this summer. Dan said his favorite part about our trip to Hawaii was giving me swimming lessons. How sweet is that? I even beat out surfing!

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Dan and I Buy Unlikely Items

I bought a bikini for the first time since the fourth grade. In fact, I bought two. Last summer, in "The Best Suit for This Apple," I wrote about the woes of swimsuit shopping and how I once again settled on a tankini because of my stomach cellulite and that I wouldn't buy a bikini, no way, no how.

But this summer was different. I was going to Hawaii, and because of this, I was probably more tuned into swimwear (and what was filling up that swimwear) than in years past. I began to notice that women of all shapes, sizes, and ages sported bikinis.

"I am not even forty yet. I should be allowed to wear a bikini even if my stomach looks curdled, and my skin is as white as polar bear fur (Lost reference alert)," I told myself.

And because I don't have the perfect body and because I am incapable of tanning, buying two bikinis was my way of taking a feminist stance against the societal norms that determine whether or not a woman should be allowed to wear a bikini.

While I was out buying my first bikini in twenty-seven years, my husband, Dan, was in deep conflict over whether or not he should buy his first pair of flip-flops in twenty-seven years. He had been wearing his sandals around town to get a "Teva tan" before heading to Hawaii. And though he wouldn't admit it, I think he secretly enjoyed not having to go through the production of putting on socks and basketball shoes every single morning.

He didn't resolve this conflict, however, until a few days into our Hawaii trip when he finally broke down a bought a pair of flip-flops. Most of us have been wearing flip-flops for a long time. I've been wearing flip-flops for so long that when I was a kid, we called them "thongs."

But for some reason, Dan—who has degrees in applied mathematics and computer science—couldn't figure out how to walk in them. It reminded me of the mini-schnauzer my family used to have. Anytime they would dress the dog in a sweater or a shirt—which was a lot because they were the kind of pet owners who loved to put their animals in clothes—she would waddle around on her front legs while dragging her back legs behind her.

Watching Dan walk in flip-flops was kind of like watching the family dog walk around in a sweater.

"What are you doing?" I asked as Dan scuffed his feet gingerly and slightly pigeon-toed along the walkway.

"It's weird walking in these things," he explained. "You have to kind of pinch your toes as you step. Don't you do that?"

"Maybe. I hadn't thought about it, but I'm pretty sure I don't look like that when I walk in flip-flops."

"If I don't pinch my toes, I'm afraid I'll do this." Dan kicked and sent his sandals flying off of his feet.

"Hmm. Well, we can't have that . . ."

We have been back on the mainland for about two weeks now. Dan hasn't worn his flip-flops or even his Tevas, and I haven't worn either of my bikinis since our return. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.

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Hawaii, Part 2: The Turner-Duggan Kauai Experience

Na Pali Coast, Kauai

Welcome to the Turner-Duggan Kauai Experience. Here are a few personal observations and anecdotes I collected during my recent trip to Hawaii. We all know silliness has a tendency to follow my husband and me wherever we go.

1. Crowing roosters
You don't really need an alarm clock on Kauai because you are bound to hear a rooster at some point during the early hours (and pretty much all day, for that matter).

Actually, you don't really need an alarm clock with a Dan either. The first morning, he woke me up at six o'clock.

"It's ten o'clock our time," he said, jumping out of bed with an energy he rarely displays at home.

"Then by that logic, we went to bed at two a.m.," I grumbled.

2. The Jeep
We rented a Jeep since we figured a lot of our sightseeing was going to involve driving on rugged roads. I have a sneaking suspicion that Dan enjoyed driving such a manly man vehicle. In any other situation, I would have guilt-tripped him about its carbon footprint and the implied chauvinism of such a monstrosity.

I, on the other hand, could never close the car door completely. It was too heavy. It got to the point that when the door ajar chime sounded, we'd say in unison, "Door!" Dan started opening and closing the car door for me every time I got in and out but not for the sake of chivalry.

The Jeep only played reggae stations. We did eventually find a classic rock station that would come in most of the time. We noticed it shared D.J.s with the Jeep's choice reggae station.

3. Looking young
Looking young is awesome. I am reminded of my grandmother whose claim to fame was that she had always looked at least ten years younger than her age. Even when she was ninety-eight, she bragged that no one could believe she was a day over eighty-eight. I must have inherited those genes. And Dan is the same way. He must have good genes too.

I only mention this bragging right because Dan and I were asked numerous times if we were on our honeymoon. When we answered no—and I usually added, "We celebrate our ten-year anniversary this December"—people would say, "Then you must have been high school sweethearts?"

At this point, I would confess that we were thirty-six because I didn't want them to think Dan and I had been too young when we married.

And the people would say, "Wow! You must have good genes."

I have never been so happy to admit my real age as I was in Hawaii.

4. Tastes, sounds, etc.
In Kauai, I tasted the best pineapples, mangoes, avocados, and bananas ever. In cooking magazines, when they talk about the creaminess of the mango or avocado, you don't really know what they mean until you taste one of those fruits in the tropics. Our bananas on the mainland are the blandest fruits ever known to humankind.

When the palm leaves rustle in the breeze—and there is a constant, gentle breeze—it sounds like rain. A chorus of birds and crickets greeted us anytime we hiked through the island's rainforest areas.

The best part about hiking in Kauai is the lack of large predators on the island. No bears (Stephen Colbert would be happy), snakes, or cougars. This is one of the reasons there are so many feral chickens and roosters running around. Hikers may encounter a stray cat or two on some of the trails. One could feasibly run into scarier animals on the Boise greenbelt.

5. Playing in the ocean
My typically reserved and very serious husband reverted to a happy child around the ocean. At the beach, Dan would play in the waves and snorkel with his goggles. He would return to the shore every few minutes, where I was usually attempting and failing miserably to read, to excitedly tell me about all the fish he saw underwater.

Dan took surfing lessons too. Right before he left, he said, "I hope my instructor isn't like Paul Rudd's character on Forgetting Sarah Marshall."

Afterward, Dan said the instructor asked him, "So the Mrs. didn't want to try surfing, huh?"

Dan told him that "the Mrs.," apparently meaning "Becky," wasn't the strongest swimmer.

"Yeah," the instructor waxed philosophical, "sometimes my job is just about fighting the fear."

6. Sightseeing

When we were driving to the Kilauea Lighthouse, I asked, "Do you know if people can go up to the top?"

"Are you wearing underwear?" Dan asked.

Because he doesn't process his thoughts out loud, I wasn't sure what this response meant. He explained he was worried that there might be holes in the stairs we would have to climb.

"People would be able to see up your dress."

The lighthouse wasn't open to tours, so there were no stairs with holes or otherwise.

On our final day on the island, we went to Kauai Coffee, toured the plantation, and sampled several types of coffee and chocolate-covered espresso beans. We finished the excursion with a latte. I was happily buzzed.

Dan looked at me, his eyes uncharacteristically wide and alert, and asked, "So do you want to try more?"

Back in Portland:
We found out jet lag is much worse when you lose hours. Our first night back in Portland, we decided we were finally hungry enough for dinner around nine, and we tracked down a Whole Foods that was about ready to close for the evening.

Right before bed, I found Dan in the bathroom, flushing our leftovers down the toilet so that he could recycle the containers. And that was the final scene etched in my memory of our Turner-Duggan summer vacation.

For more vacation fun, check out "Hawaii, Part 1: How My Summer Vacation Was Like Lost."

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Hawaii, Part 1: How My Summer Vacation Was Like Lost (Minus the Death Motifs)

Na Pali Coast, Kauai

It is probably not the best idea to re-watch the TV show Lost the same summer you fly to Hawaii. I mean, the entire series begins with a plane crash on a mysterious (very Hawaiian-looking) Pacific island. But that is exactly what my husband and I did.

We didn't visit Oahu, where Lost was actually filmed, but that did not stop Dan from referencing the show every chance he got. Yes, we were those kind of tourists this summer. Luckily, no one heard us since we don't like people enough to socialize while traveling.

Here are my summer vacation's top five Lost references: (I am sure there were more. I just can't remember all of them.)

1. On the Plane
"Do you think we're close to The Island?" Dan asked, studying the tracker on the seat in front of him—you know, the tracker that shows a little plane flying on a trajectory with NOTHING BUT WATER underneath.

Again, it was probably not the best idea to watch Lost the week before flying over the ocean.

2. On My Head
I learned it was best to embrace curly hair. Dan called it my "Kate" hair.
He already calls me "Freckles" all the time. Even though you can't see my freckles very well in this picture (you don't even get the full impact of the curliness that haunted my journey), trust me when I say I have a lot of them. Dan, who would like to be "Sawyer" but is more like "Daniel Faraday," was so happy to travel with his very own "Kate" in Hawaii.

3. On a Hike
One morning, while we were hiking in a densely forested area, Dan started whispering incoherently and making wind noises. I, always the theatrical one, spun around, waving a make-believe torch dramatically. You'll be happy to know, no dead people appeared. You'll also be happy to know that no fellow hikers witnessed this performance either.

4. Out in Nature
Dan said, at least once per hike, "These cliffs look like the ones on Lost!" No, Lost Geeks, we never found a cave full of crossed-out names inside them.







There were also unusual-looking trees around Kauai that resembled the ones on Lost. On one trail, we found a cluster of these trees off the path.

"Is this where we hide from the Smoke Monster?" Dan asked.

5. In My Dreams
The night before we flew out of Hawaii, I dreamed that I was starring in the last episode of Lost, and I was an emotional mess.

"I hope it's not a premonition that our plane is going to crash over the Pacific," I said to Dan.

He just rolled his eyes. He doesn't believe in my self-proclaimed clairvoyance. And he was right. We now know that there were no plane crashes involved in our trip to Hawaii.

But I still think that dream meant more, like maybe it was a metaphor for the sadness you feel when something great comes to an end, whether it's the end of Lost or the end of vacation.

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