When Shopping Turns Weird

Now that I am getting older, I am buying more embarrassing things, like over-the-counter things. You can probably guess the types of things I mean. (Nothing sexy. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

My last couple of shopping trips have been troubling. Cashiers are starting to comment on my purchases. I haven't been completely humiliated yet. So far, it's just been weird. I would much rather buy my shit and get out of the store.

I first encountered this trend at a local drugstore when the pre-pubescent checkout guy started giving a running commentary while ringing me up.

"Let's see. We've got some Biotrue eye stuff, some hair stuff, some makeup, some masking tape, nice variety."

Then he read the Star Wars themed Valentine's card I was buying for my husband, Dan.

"Good one," he chuckled.

He didn't say anything about my toenail fungus medication, thank goodness.

I would have chalked that up to an anomaly, except that the next weekend I was in Park City Utah, and the woman behind the cash register, started inquiring about my life.

"Are you from around here? No? Oh, Idaho. Boise! I like Boise. It's very pretty," then she lowered her voice. "I really like Idaho Falls."

I didn't respond. I had never met anyone who said, "I really like Idaho Falls." I was at a loss for words.

She stared at me intently, "I love the Temple there."

I think she may have winked, like some kind of code.

"Huh," I said. "I've never been to the Temple there."

A day or two later, Dan and I were using my bookstore gift cards from Christmas. We had decided to add copies of 1984 and Brave New World to our collection, having read them a long time ago. For our anniversary, I bought Dan a Brave New World t-shirt, and that prompted him to reread the book.

"Will they think we're weird, buying these two books at the same time?" Dan asked as we approached the counter.

"Nah, they'll just think we're edgy," I said. "An edgy, middle-aged couple."

Instead, the twelve-year-old girl (maybe this generation doesn't know how to talk to adults?) who checked us out gave us a treatise on the controversial nature of the two books and how they were considered groundbreaking at the time.

"Are you reading these for school?" she asked. (Maybe she didn't think we were middle-aged after all.)

"No, just adding them to our collection," I said.

"And rereading," Dan added.

This morning, I was stocking up on cold medications at the grocery store since I had gone through several of them this past week due to a head cold I had acquired while working in my petri dish classroom.

"Oh no!" said the clerk. "Are we not doing too well?"

Maybe I should stick to online shopping from now on.

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

When Your Life Revolves Around the Olympics (RE-POST from 2/23/14)

Still true . . . four years later . . . I am an Olympic widow once again. My husband, Dan, has already tried to throw me across the living room after watching pairs skating. He also found a special station where he can watch four different Olympics channels at once. Fun times . . .

I am married to an Olympics junkie.

My husband, Dan, does not sleep for two weeks when the Olympics are on. This winter, he has been watching everything, even the weird stuff.

Curling? Scoot that round stone thing down the ice at painstakingly slow speeds with a broom and stick thingy.

Luge? Who cares if people have died doing this? Go ahead and race down an ice track on your back.

Biathlon? (I know Boise had a local competitor in this event, but . . .) Skiing and shooting? That's just strange, but it does sound like an Idahoan's dream sport.

I came home from a workshop yesterday to find that Dan had been watching the Olympics for eight hours straight.

"I was only going to record the ones I wanted to watch this year, but I ended up recording the whole thing," he said with a sigh.

And when he says "the whole thing," he even means the special interest stories about nesting dolls and the girl who found the Russian parents who gave her up for adoption twenty years ago.

Our decision to watch this Olympics this time around was not without controversy.

"We should boycott these Olympics, considering Putin's human rights record," I mentioned a few weeks ago.

Dan grunted.

So instead of standing strong with Pussy Riot, I've been practicing "twizzles" around the house. (Twizzle is the best word in the world.)

Then, in the midst of my twizzling, Dan saw the pairs skating move where the guy throws the girl sideways above his head and she flips around a couple of times mid-air and he catches her (we hope).

"We should try that!" Dan said, and he chased me around the house until I was able to get into a room with a lockable door.

Of course, the Olympics have reminded us of something that Dan and I don't really want to think about . . . we're not getting any younger. It doesn't help that the commentators keep talking about the mid-thirtyish athletes who are too old for their sports.

Last night, Dan turned off the T.V. and said, "This is the first Olympics where feel like I related to the old guys."

Oh well, I guess you can't dream of someday riding a half pipe in the Olympics forever.

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

The Valentine That Almost Wasn't (RE-POST from 2/20/17)

Remember this from last year? My husband, Dan, already told me he has about given up on florists during the high-traffic holidays. After fourteen years of roses, I wonder what it will be this year? Chocolate? Chocolate's always good. I still think Valentine's Day is overly commercialized, but I think I can handle at least one consumer-driven holiday that encourages chocolate and wine.

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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The Day I Ran the Pacer

I did this thing the other day. I ran The Pacer in gym class. Yes, I am a forty-year-old music teacher. Yes, I chose to do it, but, #TBH, I didn't know what it was when I agreed to it. We never ran The Pacer when I was in school.

The sixth grade teachers invited me, most likely in a moment of weakness, to be on their Pacer team. We were going to compete against the sixth graders. I was so excited to be "picked in P.E." that I didn't even ask what The Pacer was. (I was one of those kids who suffered trauma in gym class due to always being chosen last.)

What I had agreed to was a timed relay that increases in speed every few rotations. The student (or forty-year-old music teacher) runs the length of the gym and back, attempting to reach the line before a beep sounds. As the runner levels up, there is less and less time between beeps.

Here is the thing. I do enjoy running. I am pretty good at distance running, but I am not super fast. What I didn't know is that by the end of The Pacer, you are pretty much sprinting. I am not a skilled sprinter.

The morning of my Pacer debut, the word got around and the kids started to scare me.

"It's pretty hard, Mrs. Duggan," said one of my sixth graders. "It gets really fast at the end."

He seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being.

"You're running The Pacer?" another kid asked me.

"Sure!" I told her.

She shuddered in response.

"So if I get tired and can't make it, I get out, not my whole team, right?" I asked one of my classes.

"Yeah, but then they have to run with two people instead of three, and that's harder," the kids said, the underlying message being, your team is counting on you . . .

Later, the P.E. teacher told me that the test was banned in China because it was seen as punishment; however, according to Snopes, this seems to be a rumor. It makes for a good war story though.

The afternoon of the infamous Pacer, I lined up with my teammates.

"This will be good for you, getting some exercise," one of my sixth grade choir students said, "instead of just standing in front of the class all day."

"She exercises," the sixth grade teacher said in my defense.

"What are you talking about?" I asked the kid. "You know we do choir aerobics all the time!"

My two teammates stood at least a head taller than me. Some of the teachers watching from the sidelines got a kick out of the height discrepancy.

"You're little legs are going so fast!"

"I need to lengthen my stride, but my legs are getting tired!" I said breathlessly.

As the kids got out, I could hear them cheering for me, the underdog.

In reality, it wasn't that bad. By the end of the fifteen minutes, I had worked up a pretty good runner's high. Usually, that doesn't hit me until at least three miles in.

I made it to level ten. (Remember, I am forty.) I'm still not sure what "level ten" means. My fitness tracker said I got up to eight miles per hour. I beat most of the sixth grade girls, except for a few of the super athletic, taller ones.

Of course, my classroom smelled like Icy Hot all afternoon.

The next day, I couldn't move certain body parts very well. I had to lift my legs with my hands when I wanted to cross them. My abs hurt, giving me false hope that I was developing a six-pack. I tried to demonstrate crawling on all fours during one of my classes and quickly realized that was a big mistake.

One of my teammates stopped by my room that morning. He was hurting too, and I'm pretty sure he is about a decade younger than I am.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked.

"Like an old person," I responded.

And I was pretty proud of that.

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