The Valentine That Almost Wasn't

When my husband, Dan, and I first married, I mentioned in not-so-subtle terms that I wanted flowers sent to my work on Valentine's Day. I have received flowers ever since. Until this year . . .

Being an elementary school teacher is the best career for those of you who lament this heavily commercialized holiday or for those of you who lack a "valentine" to share the day with. I am the first to admit how fortunate I am. Kids bring me chocolates and touching cards about what an awesome teacher I am all day long.

In fact, I was so busy basking in all the random acts of kindness, it completely slipped my mind that I hadn't received my annual flower delivery.

That evening, Dan helped me unload my car. He searched the back seat, then the front seat, and emerged with crinkled eyebrows.

"Didn't you get any flowers . . . ?" he asked.

"No!" I said with a gasp. "Come to think of it, I didn't!"

"I know they are busy on Valentine's Day, but . . ." he added he would give the florist a call the next day.

"I will take a nice dinner out instead." (We already had made reservations at a local restaurant.)

"And a Walking Dead marathon," Dan said.

"That sounds romantic," I mumbled.

The next morning, I discovered from our administrative assistant that the florist had a left a message on the school's voicemail at 5:30 the previous evening, complaining that the doors were locked and he wasn't going to be able to deliver the flowers. Our assistant, who always has our backs, called him and had it out with him.

She said something along these lines, "This is a school! No one is here at 5:30 to have flowers delivered to them. I would redeliver them at her home or give Dan his money back!"

Dan also called them and found out they were going to redeliver.

I received the roses in the middle of my third grade class, the day after Valentine's Day. It was just fine with me. I had two Valentine's Days in a row.

It was the perfect class in which to receive the flowers as well. I have several cute girls in that particular group, and they made me read card (luckily, not a sexy one). In fact, they were horrified that I tried to start teaching before I read the card.

"Happy Valentine's Day! I'm looking forward to our McCall trip together."

"Awwww . . ." the girls squealed.

"I've seen your husband," one of the kids said, while a few others tried to tell me about their past trips to McCall.

I finally got them refocused on the actual music lesson before my thirty minutes with them were up.

Later that afternoon, the custodian told me the flowers were the prettiest she had ever seen and commented on the the way the petals were already opening.

"Thank you," I said, "but have I got a story for you!"

 

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Don't Groom Me

I hate being groomed.

We all have those friends or family members who cannot concentrate on anything other than the tiny piece of lint or the skinny little thread on the back of your shirt. Eventually, they reach out, without invitation, and pick or brush it off of you.

Then relief floods over them, and they give this look like, "Whew! Now I can make eye contact."

It's as though that random particle they removed was more important than the stimulating conversation you're sure to provide.

I don't like being touched spontaneously. I could care less about lint or stray hair on my clothes. I work with five hundred elementary students five days a week, and I am a mess by the end of the day. If I make it to 3:15 without coffee all over my blouse and a skirt that is twisted around backwards and riding up my waist, I am happy.

My best friend throughout junior high and high school never once groomed me. I am convinced that is one reason we stayed such good friends over the years.

My husband, Dan, does attempt to groom me, mostly to irritate me. He picked at some weird fuzzies on my shirt once or twice and liked the reaction he got. Now he does it all the time.

He will pick at a permanent spot on my neck or face that looks like a smudge or lint.

I'll yell, "Ow!" and he will laugh and do it again.

If we are at dinner, and I have something in my teeth, he will stare at my teeth or pick at his own teeth in some kind of silent groomer's code while we're mid-discussion.

In I Remember Nothing, Nora Ephron writes, "It's very sad to look in the bathroom mirror and realize you've spent the last ninety minutes with spinach on your tooth. Or parsley. Which is an even more dangerous thing to eat. And that none of your friends loved you enough to tell you."

So, I guess if the thing in my teeth is that distracting, it's alright to tell me. You don't have to make up special gestures to discreetly get your point across. Be prepared though. I might roll my eyes if you interrupt my train of thought just to tell me I have a peppercorn stuck to my tooth.

The other day, I used a Tide to Go pen on the shirt I was wearing. Dan entered the room, ready to say something to me. He stopped dead in his tracks and poked at the spot the stain stick had left.

"I did this on purpose! I am very aware of it. Stop acting like I am some kind of slob!"

"You kind of are," Dan said with a laugh.

Of course, I can swat at my husband, but I don't think it is socially acceptable to do that to other people. Apparently, it is okay to pick at someone's clothing without permission though.

I am not observant enough to groom people. I don’t notice if they have lint on their shirts or tags sticking out in back. If I do notice something, I am self-absorbed enough to chatter away and ignore it.

Occasionally, I will groom my husband. I figure I owe him.

Dan often has stray strands of hair hanging off of his chin. I think his beard attracts the hair when the strands shed, and they stick to his beard like Velcro. I have been known to grab those pesky hairs from time to time.

The last time I did it, he yelled out, "Ha! Don't groom me!"

"Why not? You’re hairy," was my response.

Turnabout is fair play, you know.

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

"In Jill's Words" Is Now "In Becky's Words"

It's me, Becky! Newsflash: My name isn't Jill.

When I first started blogging, I didn't want anyone to know who I was. I wrote under a pseudonym. It felt very subversive, like George Eliot or George Sand. My middle name is Jill, so I called my blog, In Jill's Words. That was in 2006.

As you've probably guessed from previous blog posts, I am not subversive or a British or French novelist. Also, in order to be a blogger, you have to make up some sort of profile, and I didn't go to huge lengths to hide my identity.

It is hilarious to think that I could achieve any kind of anonymity on the Internet. The INTERNET! I mean, Google already knows everything about me, from the fact that I am a female raging liberal to my interest in General Hospital.

Then, I received a message from a sweet woman, a fellow blogger who had recently bought the domain, injillswords.com. She didn't ask me to change anything. She just wanted to let me know she would be blogging under the title as part of her business.

I felt bad she had paid for the domain, and here I was blogging under the title for free, for fun, not as a way of bringing in any extra income, and "Jill" wasn't even my real name. It was time to reveal my true self . . .

So . . . my blog is now In Becky's Words. My URL is the same for now since I would have to change all of the links I have posted on my Facebook pages, etc. I need a little more time for that, like maybe, summer vacation.

Word of caution: Don’t Google In Becky’s Words yet. My blog shows up third, but only after lyrics to a rap by Plies and an embarrassing Urban Dictionary definition. Apparently, the term "Becky" does not mean a perky, freckle-faced, elementary music teacher in all circles.

Let's just say it makes the Sir Mix-A-Lot song (another rap that uses my name) look like it belongs on the Disney Channel.

“Oh my god, Becky, look at her butt . . .”

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