Thanksgiving Funnies 2016 (RE-POST from 12/4/16)

I hope everyone enjoyed their Thanksgiving holiday this year. While I am still busy celebrating this year, here is my Thanksgiving blog from a couple of years ago. (RE-POST from 12/4/16)

 

This year, my husband, Dan, and I spent Thanksgiving with his family in the eastern part of the state. We were running in a race in Idaho Falls on Thanksgiving morning, but Dan and I arrived a half-hour too late to pick up our packets and bib numbers. We went to dinner and a movie instead.

We were waiting in line to get our movie tickets when a little girl, around age three or four, barreled through the door with her family. She ran around the ticket booths, chattering up a storm. All of a sudden, she froze right in front of Dan.

“Long hair?!” she exclaimed, staring at him in shock.

I looked around the theater. She was right. A man with long hair and a beard was an anomaly in that place. We fit right in when we visit Seattle or Portland, and even Boise has quite a lot of long hair and beards. Not so in eastern Idaho, I suppose.

Dan and I decided on an R-rated movie after we saw how many young kids were running around. I would have suggested Moana, but thought better of it when I noticed a child lying on the ground, being dragged by the arm by his mom into that movie.

(I need to borrow a kid so that I can see Moana, preferably a child who won't need to pee every five minutes or talk to me at all during the movie. Let me know if you have any practically comatose children with large bladders I could borrow, for like, two hours.)

Thanksgiving morning, we headed to the race. We had been sent several e-mails stating that late registrants would not be receiving commemorative shirts. We hadn't registered that late, but we already own around five hundred fifty-one race shirts. In other words, that was fine with us.

Due to our "late" packet pick-up the next morning, we also ended up with bibs that said, "I Run Utah" on them.

"Why do you have a different bib?" one runner asked us. "Are you doing the 10K or something?"

"We didn't get into town on time last night . . . so this happened . . . " I told her.

The runner started talking about how the race starts late every year. They were already fifteen minutes past the start time. She said the previous year, it was worse. The runners had to stand around in the snow for thirty minutes.

"People started yelling 'Start the race!' at the officials," she said.

I did finally see a few guys, other than Dan, with long hair and beards at the race. You've gotta stay warm if you're going to run in the winter.

In case you were wondering, the race did begin eventually.

I have this issue when I run in the winter. My ears tear up . . . big time. I am not talking about a bit of moisture around the lashes either. Waterfalls cascade from my eyes, people.

I am pretty sure the volunteers who were cheering us on as we approached the finish line thought, "Look at this woman, so emotional about finishing the race! She must have overcome some obstacles to do this."

I didn't. My eyes are just weird.

I have to brag about our finish though. Dan and I were at the old end of our age group, and Dan got fourth out of the males, ages 35-39, and I got sixth out of the females, ages 35-39. And, before you ask if only ten people were running, there were over five hundred participants.

At the end of the race, everyone tried to give us their coffee mugs. We must look like we drink a lot of coffee. They guessed right.

We drove through a lighting display in one of the local parks our last evening in town. The ticket seller must have been used to families with young kids coming through because she said, "Stop at the tent up top and you can see Santa . . . or . . . " she looked at us again and gave a chuckle . . . "I guess you could take your own pictures instead . . . "

But the best part . . .

The local museum was hosting a traveling exhibit of the American Revolution which we visited with Dan's family. I bet you can imagine what I was doing the entire time . . . (Dan can't take me anywhere.)

"Alexander Hamilton . . . my name is Alexander Hamilton . . ."
"Here comes the GENERAL!"
"One last time . . ."
"LAFAYETTE!"

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

It's Mammogram Time! (RE-POST from 11/25/17)

I wrote this blog post last year after my first mammogram experience. It was yet another turning-forty milestone along with developing turkey neck and receiving AARP brochures in the mail. Now I am forty-one and, apparently, I am expected to get one of these things every year for the rest of my life. I received a lot of positive feedback after writing this a year ago, especially from women who were new to this whole middle-aged thing. So here is your gentle reminder, forty-something-plus women, to get your mammograms scheduled. It ain't so bad. (RE-POST from 11/25/17)

Warning: This blog post is about breasts but not in a sexy way. Viewer discretion (I'm talking to you, perv men who are obnoxiously obsessed with boobs, which is probably most of you) is advised.

In case you didn't already know, I turned 40 this year. When I went to the doctor for my annual appointment, the first thing she said was, "Let's get you scheduled for a mammogram."

Sigh . . . mammograms . . .

I remembered my forty-something mother (so old at the time) telling me about mammograms.

"They squeeze your boobs into a vice thingy," she told me.

"What if your boobs are too small?" I asked.

"Oh, they will find a way," she assured me, then added her PSA, "but it's worth it. It can save your life."

When the breast clinic called, the woman scheduling me asked, "Have you had any breast issues, or is this just because you're grown up now?"

"No issues," I said. "I turned forty. That's my issue."

I started to do some informal research, partially for blog material but also because I was nervous.

"It's uncomfortable, but it's quick," one friend told me.

When I asked another friend if it hurt, she answered me with a terrified nod.

Later she tracked me down and recanted guiltily, "It's not that bad. We go through a lot worse as women."

"My mother used to come home black and blue, but it's not like that anymore," another friend said.

Later that week, my brother texted me to tell me about an event he had on Monday, the exact day I was scheduled for my mammogram.

"I have my first mammogram because #I'm40Now. New experiences for both of us. I bet mine will hurt more," I texted.

"LOL. But we are both doing these things because we are older and more mature ;)," he responded.

The jury is still out on that one.

The clinic sent me a list of things to prepare me for my mammogram. I couldn't wear deodorant, powder, or lotion. (I didn't even use soap that day.) I was supposed to wear slacks or a skirt.

"No jeans? What about yoga pants? Who calls pants slacks anymore anyway?" I asked Google.

Google told me, "They want you to wear two pieces, as in 'not a dress,' so you don’t have to strip naked."

The night before my mammogram, I lay on the couch and found all kinds of lumps in my breasts. I started to panic. My husband, Dan, suggested I calm down by watching The Walking Dead with him.

The next morning, I killed time before my appointment by watching Act Three of La Traviata on PBS. That probably wasn't the best idea either.

When I arrived at the clinic, I was by far the youngest person in the waiting room. I noticed no one was in jeans, and I panicked for a second. Maybe I wasn't supposed to wear jeans after all. Maybe only slacks were allowed. Then I realized all the other women were in that I-only-wear-knit-pants stage of life.

The technician called my name and took me back through a maze to the dressing room. She handed me a pink floral gown.

"This lovely thing will hang to your ankles," she said with a chuckle.

Apparently, the gown didn't come in petite sizes. It actually hung past my feet and over my hands.

I learned I have dense breasts, and the technician was pleased that I chose the new 3D method because of my dense breasts. It felt strangely affirming that the technician thought I made well-informed decisions.

I also learned I have a "raised" spot on my left breast, although I still don't know what that means. I found out about this raised spot because she had to tag it so it wouldn't show up as a false positive on the image.

She also checked my skin to tag moles.

"I'm not a dermatologist, so don't rush to your doctor freaked out after this," she said.

"What? Skin cancer too?" I said, and we both had a good laugh.

I had heard that women with bigger breasts have an easier time with mammograms, and I always thought mine were fairly big. But, man, she really had to twist and stretch them to get them onto the platform.

The vice thingy compressed my boobs, and I was told to breathe, then not to breathe, then to stick my hips out, then to hang like a rag doll, then to put my elbow out, then to hold my gown tight with my other hand, then to press my cheek against the machine.

During one of the stranger body contortions, the technician asked me, "How are you doing?"

"It's not my favorite thing, but I'm fine."

A couple of seconds later, she stumbled slightly over the stool.

"Oops! Better watch where I'm going!" she said.

"Yeah, I can't do this on my own."

"Sure you could!"

We giggled at that.

 

For women who are nervous about getting their first mammogram, here is the bottom line. (Or maybe I am the only one who gets neurotic over these things.)

A mammogram feels a bit like your breasts are being closed slowly and deliberately in a refrigerator door. It's a feeling of compression and pressure, not really pain. It isn't any more uncomfortable than a pap smear or other exams we women have to endure, and I imagine it's nothing compared to labor pains or giving birth.

The only slightly painful part was when the machine pressed up against my sternum. I am kind of bony there where my cleavage should actually be. As my theater friends, who have seen me naked numerous times, know, you could drive a Mack Truck through my cleavage. I have no boob cushion there.

But it's worth it because, as my mother would say, a mammogram can save your life.

Plus, they let you keep this reusable bag.

Am I going to get one of these every year?

I returned home from my appointment (after stopping by Starbucks and The Gap since I totally deserved it) to find out I had left the garage door open for two hours. I was so distracted by whether or not I should wear jeans or slacks to my mammogram that I had forgotten to secure our house.

What's the biggest crime in our neighborhood? Bike theft!

By the way, no one stole our bikes, and my mammogram came back normal. I can breath easy . . . at least for another year. 

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

My Yankee Doodle Dandy Kids (RE-POST from 11/19/11)

I wrote this post seven years ago, and wow! It's almost more relevant today. (Re-posted from 11/19/11.)

I recently conducted the annual Veterans Day program at my elementary school. For about two months, I prepped my students. I taught patriotic song after patriotic song, trying to feign pride in a country with which, frankly, I have become more and more disillusioned, especially in regards to the wars America has "mongered" in recent years.

"Actually, the day is about the need for peace in our world and about those individuals who have made it possible for us to have a measure of peace, however imperfect it might be. Veterans Day is about honoring those who have expended themselves in time, energy, and blood for us," my father so eloquently wrote in an e-mail a few weeks ago.

So, I focused on the individuals, rather than on our government's foreign policy. And I discovered that Veterans Day hits very close to home with my students these days. Many of my students have family members - fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles - who have just returned from or are currently fighting overseas. In our audience alone on 11/11/11, we had veterans in attendance who had fought in World War II, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

My 3rd and 4th grade performers hailed from all over the globe as well - India, Africa, the Middle East, Myanmar, Thailand.

"That is a good song!" one of my little girls from Africa exclaimed after singing "This Land is Your Land" one morning.

I found it prophetic that she would choose a song (that began as a slightly socialist anthem) that talked about providing a place for all people to live in equality as her favorite.

"My favorite is 'I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy,'" I overheard one of my little boys from India tell his ELL teacher. And then he started to sing, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again . . ."

"When I watch my class sing, I keep wondering 'Which one of you is the Yankee Doodle Dandy?'" one of the third grade teachers told me, referring to the number of refugees and English-As-A-Second-Language students in her class. "And that's their favorite song!"

Though many of the 180 kids in my Veterans program were not "Yankees" by birth, by the end of that afternoon, they had truly become proud Americans, "however imperfect" they might later discover America to be. They filed onto the risers, clad in red, white, and blue, and sang their hearts out. They watched in reverence as the veterans stood and accepted thank you notes from one of the fourth grade helpers. They saluted the audience with gusto during the final song. Wasn't this the definition of "Yankee-hood," the essence of "The New Colossus?"

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

"All those kids, they sang to us," one of the World War II veterans said to me afterward, tears in his eyes. "It was beautiful."

And it was. It was yet again a case of the students teaching the (jaded, cynical, disillusioned) music teacher.

Or, as I like to say to my kiddos from time to time, "The student has now become the master!"

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