The Day Dan Picked the Music (RE-POST from 4/25/15)

While I am busy building sets for my latest production and in honor of Dan's birthday a few days ago, enjoy this blog re-post from 2015!

My husband, Dan, and I just keep getting older. In fact, Dan celebrated a birthday last weekend. It seems like the birthdays keep coming quicker and quicker as we keep getting older. I suppose that's how it works.

To celebrate Dan's birthday this year, we spent the weekend in Sun Valley. A trip to Sun Valley is plenty exciting in itself. But the real fun occurred on the drive up and back.

That's when Dan got to pick the music.

Usually, I create a "Road Trip Playlist" from the Becky-approved music on my iPod. But since it was his birthday, I permitted Dan to use his iPod and listen to whatever he wanted, even if it meant random bouts of ear-bleeding by the end of our trip.

Dan's taste isn't terrible. We just differ in our beliefs as to how much screaming versus melodic line should be used in music.

We left on Record Store Day, which seemed appropriate. Dan explained that he had put together a two-part playlist. "Dan's Birthday Radio" consisted of a bunch of singles handpicked by the birthday boy. The second part of the of the playlist included full albums that "Becky usually doesn't listen to."

I was pleasantly surprised when "Rapture" started playing.

''You picked good songs," I said. "I thought you'd just choose [this is where I did my best screaming impression], 'rah, rah, rah, rah.'"

Dan smiled.

"Oh. Is that coming later?"

A few miles down the road, Dan turned to me with a twinkle in his eye. (Yes, it's the first time I've seen Dan's eye twinkle too.)

"Have you figured out my playlist pattern?" he asked.

"Is it boy singer, girl singer, hip hop?"

"I think you'll like the hip hop I chose."

"Because you didn't choose a bunch of misogynist crap."

Toward the end of "Dan's Birthday Radio," he began to second guess himself.

"Maybe I should have made the whole thing a singles playlist. I can sneak in one or two songs you don't like but not a whole album."

"It doesn't matter if I like it," I said. "It's your birthday."

"It matters when you go, 'bleck . . .'"

(He's right. I do say that when I don't like something. It's the same noise I make when Republicans do stupid things too.)

When we reached part two of the playlist, Dan quizzed me every time a new album began.

"Do you know who this is?" or "Who do you think this is?" and "What made you think that?"

He also spent a lot of time trying to convince me of Slipknot's virtues. He was quite concerned about opening my mind to the world of heavy metal.

"I used to think they were gimmicky with those dumb masks, but I really listened to this album, and it's good," he said and waited for me to respond.

I said nothing.

"Don't you think . . . ?"

I still said nothing.

Then a Slayer song came on, something about blood raining from the sky, and I started laughing.

"Do you at least like Slipknot better?" he asked.

Nothing.

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It's Nesting Season (RE-POST from 4/26/14)

Last weekend, my husband, Dan, was chased by a goose during our morning run. I noticed the goose was hissing and bobbing his head up and down and quickly crossed to the other side of the street. Dan stared him down and hissed back because that's what "they" tell you to do, the alpha dog thing, you know. It didn't work. The goose charged at Dan. It reminded me of this post from 2014. Enjoy!

Living in Boise during the spring nesting season is kind of like starring in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, except the Canadian Geese that take over this city are not very graceful. And they leave a lot of green poop behind.

You might think, "They're just birds. How bad can it be? They can't really do anything to you."

But you would be wrong. They don't care that humans are the bigger species and that we could wring their little necks with our bare hands. They will attack anything that appears to be moving. Geese are bullies, especially when they are protecting their nests.

They don't go out into the wilderness to nest. They nest in parks, near ponds, by rivers. Wherever there are people enjoying the beautiful outdoors, there will be a nesting goose.

From the stories my husband, Dan, tells, I am pretty sure most of Boise's Canadian Geese hang out at his place of employment. He has had many run-ins with the strange creatures.

When we were dating, the first story Dan ever told me was a crazy goose story. He was walking to his car, and these two geese were flying low. When they saw him, they swooped down and almost knocked him over before they flew back up overhead. In other words, the geese "buzzed" my husband.

Another time, Dan was driving through his work parking lot. He was in a moving vehicle, you'd think the safest place possible. Not so. A fearless (but stupid) goose charged at Dan's car, forcing him to swerve out of the way.

The other place one can be attacked by geese if one desires is the Boise Greenbelt. For instance, I was on a very populated stretch of the path the other day, and I walked by three geese guarding one female. Every time people would pass, the bouncer geese would puff up and ruffle their feathers, as if that looks intimidating to us sentient beings.

Dan and I go running near his work on the weekends. Once during a run, we met "The Exorcist Goose." He flipped his head around on his neck, glared at us from his contortionist-like upside down position, and hissed at us as we jogged by.

That was enough to make me do some research on how to deal with these suicidal, possibly demon-possessed waterfowl. It turns out that dealing with aggressive ganders is similar in technique to dealing with cougars, which I absolutely never want to have to do.

1. Look it in the eye.
2. Calmly and slowly back away.
3. Act naturally.
4. Give nesting geese room.

You should never panic, run away, or turn your back on aggressive geese. However, I do all three of these things on a regular basis, considering most of my goose encounters occur while running.

Last weekend, Dan and I were out running again, and we heard this post-apocalyptic chorus of geese as we approached the final pond on our route. Then we heard hissing to our right.

There it was, an unhappy protector goose waddling swiftly toward us.

"I'm looking him in the eye, and it's not helping!" I shouted. (Oh yeah. You're also not supposed to yell frantically when approached by geese.) "What should we do?"

According to the goose experts, we probably should have talked to it calmly and backed away slowly, all the while maintaining eye contact.

Here's what we actually did.

We ran faster.

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

In Which I Explore My Overinflated Sense of Height (RE-POST from 4/21/13)

While I am busy building sets for my latest production, enjoy this blog re-post from 2013! 

Yesterday I went shoe shopping, and it made me think about my overinflated sense of height. Has anyone else noticed that it's virtually impossible to find "business casual" sandals with less than a two-inch heel? I don't want to be two inches taller. First of all, I'm scared of heights. Second of all, I already think I'm too tall.

A long time ago, my mother measured me at five-four. I spent years thinking I was an average height and staying out of the petite sections because "petites" are for women who are five-four or below. I couldn't understand why my pant legs dragged under my feet or why my sleeves hung about two inches below my hands.

"Don't you remember how Mom measured us?" my brother said. "She held the yardstick at an angle. I don't think it was very accurate."

The doctor measured me at almost five-two-and-a-half. She was nice and rounded me up to five-three. At my school health screening, the nurse recorded my height at five-two.

My husband, Dan, thinks I am crazy. (This is nothing new.)

"I can't wear those shoes. I'm almost as tall as you in them!"

"Yeah, right. You come up to my chin instead of my shoulder in those shoes."

Then he turns my attention to the mirror, and I have to admit, I'm not nearly as tall as I imagine.

"These shoes are so tall. Look, I'm eye-to-eye with you now!"

Then Dan bends his knees and looks into my eyes.

"This is eye-to-eye, Becky. You're not that tall."

But I'm not that short either. It's all relative.

In my brother's wedding pictures, I do look a bit shorter than most of the wedding party. But my brother is from a generation of kids who grew taller than us Gen-X'ers.

In the last picture I took with my in-laws, I was standing on uneven ground, and I ended up looking taller than everyone else.

In pictures with my family, there used to be a drop-off (like a valley) where I was standing. But now that my brother and stepbrother have gotten married, I'm not the only valley in the photos.

In our staff photos, I am definitely not the shortest person at my school. I have a lot of colleagues who are shorter than I. (I am pretty sure that elementary school teaching is a short people profession.)

The other day, I wore a pair of ballet flats to school.

One of my kindergartners said to me, "Mrs. Duggan, you look short today. How many inches are you?"

"So if a kindergartner thinks I'm short . . . " I said to Dan that evening.

"You're not the shortest person ever. I know people as short or shorter than you," Dan conceded. "I also know people taller than you though."

See . . . I'm not that much shorter than Dan. Of course, I am in two-inch heels.

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

Happy April Fools!

I have never been a huge fan of April Fools' Day. For one thing, I don't want to be exposed as gullible. (I have snopes.com bookmarked on every device I own.) For another thing, I'm not a creative prankster.

On the morning of April Fools' Day this year, I was driving to work, and I happened to glance in my rear view mirror. I was being followed by a woman driving a hearse. A casket was in the back, and a skeleton sat on the passenger side. I'm not kidding. A smiling skeleton with one hand suspended in the air sat on the passenger side. It was the strangest sight. April Fools' Day joke or daily routine? I have no idea. Keep Boise weird, folks.

During my first year of teaching on April 1st, the principal announced over the intercom that we were going to have a "flood drill."

"Everybody grab a chair and stand on it until I give the signal!"

Then she walked around the building to see which classrooms were following her instructions. No comment on whether or not I participated. (Keep in mind, I was a first year teacher. I had no idea what kind of crazy emergency procedures the District had established, and I didn't want to get fired.)

I am not a prankster. Even after a dirty trick like that, I couldn't come up with a decent revenge plot.

I get a lot of advice from my students though.

"You should put a rubber band around the spray nozzle on your sink," a fourth grader suggested one year. "Then when Mr. Duggan washes the dishes, he will get water everywhere!"

This year, my second graders were the merry pranksters. The classes earn points in music based on their behavior. This particular class earned five points on April Fools' Day, the highest score possible.

"Let's April Fools' our teacher!" one of the students called out.

They all put a single finger in the air, indicating that they had only earned one point.

"You have to look sadder than that if she's going to believe you!" I told them. "Stop grinning . . ."

They tried with all their might not to bust out laughing, and when the teacher appeared in the doorway, the line leader immediately gave her a huge smile and shouted, "Just kidding! We got a five!"

"Wait don't tell her yet! You've got to milk it a little longer!" I said.

In other words, their delivery needed some work.

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