I Hate Parties (RE-POST from 1/24/16)

I thought, in light of all of the upcoming New Year's celebration, this would be an appropriate rerun. And it's #StillAccurate . . .

Guys, I hate parties.
That's not exactly accurate. I hate anticipating parties. I usually have a decent time once I'm there as long as I know some people. But I need at least a week to recover after being around large crowds, even as a completely sober party-goer.

This probably falls under that "I Totally Have Issues" thing.

People don't understand this about me because I talk a lot, and talking a lot makes me look like I am having sooo much fun. And I do have fun . . . eventually.

Lately, inspired by recent titles like Yes Please by Amy Poehler and Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes, I have been trying to say "yes" more to social stuff, mostly because if my husband, Dan, dies, I will have no one to hang out with anymore.

People think I’m outgoing because, like I said, I talk a lot. But I talk out of nervousness. The more nervous I am, the more (and faster) I talk. I almost scared Dan off after our first date.

"I thought, 'Man, this girl talks a lot!'" he said. "'I wonder if she would be this talkative on a second date.'"

In other words, Dan asked me out again only because he was curious how deep the crazy went.

I have a better time when the social gathering is small or when I am familiar with the people. I hate going out of my way to meet new people. I would rather stick a fork in my eye than make small talk with strangers.

I am a friendly person, and I never actually act like I want to stick a fork in my eye, so I know this might be blowing your minds.

I often experience overwhelming anxiety before I attend social functions. You would think my seriously introverted husband would have the most trouble being social, but he is the one who sits in the car and calms me down before we enter the room. He doesn’t worry about parties because he never talks. Therefore, he has no chance to say anything super awkward and stupid.

Sometimes, after I have had a lot of fun somewhere, I come home and worry all night about everything I said.

This isn't a new phobia I have developed in my old age.

In high school, the music group I was a part of had a sleepover at the end of every school year. The first year I was in it, most of the kids were older, and I didn't know them very well. I came home from school the afternoon of the party and fell asleep immediately, hoping that an extended nap would prevent me from going. But my mother woke me up, and I went and sort of enjoyed myself.

During my young adult years, back before Dan and I were dating, I was supposed to go to a bible study at his apartment, and I didn't know the people in the study yet. Dan instructed us to either tailgate another car into the gated apartment complex or call his number if no one was around to unlock the gate. I didn't want to call anyone, so I made a deal with myself. If no one was around to tailgate, I would turn around and go home.

Luckily, I was able to follow someone in. The car that drove in ahead of me that night may be the reason Dan and I are married today.

Lots of people think Dan and I are opposites. But we're not. I'm just the more talkative version of him. We both like one-on-one friendships. We both like to stake out spots at parties and stay there. (Although, I will go to the dance floor and leave Dan to watch my purse from time to time. Dancing doesn't have to be a social thing, by the way.)

The other day, I attended a social event and headed straight for the hors d'oeuvres as soon I walked through the door. It is easy and slightly comforting to sit in one spot and eat all night so that one does not have to mingle.

The organizer approached me as I sat in my chair (that I stayed in all evening), eating.

"I thought I saw you sneak in, Becky!"

“Well, you know, where there’s food . . .” I said with a nervous laugh. (See what I mean?)

Dan laughed at me when I told him about this exchange.

Then he paused, "I think I would do the same thing."

But, since everyone wants a socially awkward, anxiety-ridden, nervous talker who will eat all of the food at the party, keep inviting me, people.

It’s good for me . . . sigh.

But don't be offended if I occasionally decline. I might just need the week to recover.

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

Duggan Family Christmas Card 2018

We, the Duggans, did not get our Christmas cards out this year, so, just in case you were experiencing a Duggan-shaped void in your lives right now, here is the official 2018 Christmas Card from us to you.

Merry Christmas from Dan and Becky Duggan! We hope this greeting finds you in good health and spirits.

I still teach K-6 General Music and conduct a 75-member Choir at Grace Jordan Elementary School. We just finished our big season of holiday programs, stretching from Veterans Day to Christmas.

Last year, my 5th and 6th grade classes performed an adaptation of The Lion King.

This year, they will be presenting Mary Poppins. We couldn't have timed it better with the sequel hitting theaters this Christmas. Of course, I have to figure out some way to incorporate the 100+ students who auditioned for parts!

Dan is still busy working as a software engineer at HP. He volunteered for the Hour of Code, and for the first time, was able to come to my school. He also recently received a job promotion, from specialist to expert.

Dan and I had a busy year, spending as much time as possible with our nephews, Desmond and Bennett.

We saw Hamilton! Twice! Enough said . . .

We also vacationed in Montana and did some mountain biking in Whitefish and hiking in Glacier. And we didn't run into any bears, thank goodness!

I still perform with the Cathedral Choir and a small female ensemble from that choir, The Grace Notes. The Grace Notes were selected to sing at the state American Choral Directors Association Conference in October.

I also performed in two musical productions with The Music Theatre of Idaho. I reprised the role (from ten years ago) of Katalin Hunyak in Chicago in June.

Photo Credit: Glynis Calhoun

In December, I portrayed the character of Amalia Balash in She Loves Me, the best little musical nobody knows about.

Photo Credit: Dan Lea

Photo Credit: Dan Lea

Dan and I celebrated our 15th anniversary on December 20th, coincidentally the day of my school's Winter Program. Ah, the life of a music teacher! We plan to actually celebrate sometime after all of my Christmas gigs.

Dan and Becky throughout the years

Have a wonderful holiday and a Happy New Year!

Love,
Becky and Dan

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

Anniversary #15 Or Whose Idea Was It to Get Married at Christmas Anyway?

You may have noticed I have been rerunning a lot of blog posts lately. Most of my faithful readers will know this is because I am a musician and a music educator, and the holiday season is typically booked up through Christmas Eve for me. However, this year seemed worse than usual, most likely because I added a theater production to the mix.

Photo credit: Dan Lea

Photo credit: Dan Lea

Amalia Balash in She Loves Me ended up being one of the most rewarding roles I've performed on the stage. But let's be honest. It cut into my awesome holiday blogging time. 

Even though I may not be sending out Christmas Cards (stay tuned for next week's blog post) or decorating a tree at my house this year, I'm back just in time to tell you about my 15th Anniversary.

My husband, Dan, and I were married fifteen years ago on December 20th. I thought I was being so smart. My music program at school wasn't quite as big as it is now, and our Winter Break started a little earlier than usual. I thought getting married during the break was a grand idea. The church was already decorated. The wedding cake could be snowflake-themed. People could include Christmas ornaments on our wedding gifts.

"Just keep in mind," the minister who married us said, "you will never celebrate your wedding anniversary on the actual date if you get married at this time."

He was speaking from experience. His wedding anniversary was also on December 20th.

Fast-forward fifteen years, and I found myself scheduling my music programs with my principal.

"Hmm . . . December 20th," I said, "that date sounds vaguely familiar, but it looks free. Let's have our 1st and 2nd grade program that day!"

I guess Dan will be helping me take down risers and stage platforms on our 15th anniversary.

A lot happens in fifteen years. Let me rephrase that. A lot happens very quickly in fifteen years because life goes by so fast.

Hey Millennials, it's like this. One night I was twenty-six. The next morning, I woke up, and I was forty-one. Seriously . . .

In honor of Anniversary #15, here are some highlights from our life together for the last decade and a half.

 

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

Santa Claus May Not Throw Up On Our House This Year (RE-POST from 12/6/14)

Guys, I'm still sitting here in my living room, looking at my fall decorations. I have a feeling Santa will not be throwing up on our house at all this year. As you can tell, I am rerunning yet another blog post which also means no time to put up Christmas decorations. I ran across this post from 2014 and thought it appropriate. Enjoy! 
 
I might not get my decorations up this Christmas. I don't have a good reason, other than I am not very motivated.

For those of you who don't already know, I'm a music teacher, and Christmas is a crazy time of year for me. It's like one perpetual concert. Sometimes during the holidays, I have heard "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" so many times that I want to come home to nothing Christmas-y at all.

If Fox News (or Stephen Colbert) knew I existed, I might be accused of declaring a "War on Christmas." I have already been accused by a Tea Party guy of single-handedly removing "the Christ from Christmas" in our public schools. That was the same year I was also told that I didn't include enough traditional druid songs like, "Walkin' in a Wiccan Wonderland." You'll forgive me if I sometimes get a little too Christmas-ed out to trim the tree.

My husband, Dan, and I have one window of opportunity to decorate our house, the Saturday or Sunday after Thanksgiving. If we don't do it then, the chances of getting it done are slim to none.

Most years, we spend that Saturday or Sunday listening to Christmas music while Dan puts up the (fake) tree, and I flit from room to room, trying to remember how I made space for everything the year before.

After we're done, Dan looks around the living room and says, "Yup. It looks like Santa Claus threw up on our house."

This year, Dan did put up the (fake) tree, but I went grocery shopping instead because . . . you know . . . well . . . food.

The truth is, I'm not really feeling it this weekend either because . . . well . . . I need to buy food again.

So, will we put up decorations this year?

It's a mystery . . . even to me . . .

Maybe I'll just go to Sun Valley and enjoy someone else's handiwork.

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

Top Five Winter Faves (RE-POST from 12/2/17)

Those of you who are and/or know musicians will understand that this is a busy time of year for us. In light of that fact, I am running a re-post from last year. Enjoy! 

In the past, I have blogged about my Top Five Fall Faves, but I have never written about my winter faves.

"Why is that?" you may ask. "You certainly like talking about yourself and your preferences and your opinions on every other subject, Becky. Why have we never heard about your favorites during the winter?"

Well, let me tell you.

This time of year, I am overwhelmed with coordinating programs and concerts involving 100+ children between the ages of six and twelve and, depending on the year, taking on the role of performer in various community events. Sometimes, I forget there are things I like about this season.

I figured I had better put my favorites in writing before the cynicism of being a musician at Christmastime takes over.

1. Fluffy Scarves and Hats

Need I say more? Part fashion statement, part concealer of winter hair static and turkey neck, I can't get enough of fluffy hats and scarves.

2. Christmas Decorations and Lights

Even though I whine like a baby while decorating my house, I do enjoy my month of festive decor.

I also enjoy looking at all of decorations and lights around town, even though last year we had to drive around in that crazy snow on Christmas Eve, which did not mix with someone who occasionally battles motion sickness.

Let's just say I took my husband's favorite expression, "It looks like Santa threw up on our house" a little too literally.

3. Holiday Music . . . ?

I feel like I should say holiday music is my fave, being a musician and all, but music teachers are kind of like the Walmart of school. We start teaching the holiday standards in October because it takes that long to put a Winter Program together.

I do love listening to my cute first and second graders sing their holiday repertoire though, especially when I announce the song we're going to practice, and they all exclaim, "YES!" for Every. Single. Song.

4. Comfort Food

My enjoyment in life is mostly determined by food, and during the winter, there are just certain dishes I have to eat.

Butter Braid on Christmas morning? Christmas Eve Taco Dip? Butternut Squash Soup? Mac and Cheese? Christmas Date Log? Hello Dollies? Veggie Lasagna? Yes, please!

5. A Winter Wonderland . . . maybe . . .

I would say snow is one of my favorites, but then I think about last year . . . Snowmageddon, anyone?

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

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!"

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

The Chaotic Day, and the Kids Who Made It Better

I had a few chaotic days about a week ago. I don't want to say I had all-around lousy days because some good things happened. Some chaotic things happened. And one, maybe two, lousy things happened.

True to form though, my students made it better.

The day after one of my chaotic times, a fifth grade student "honored" me over the intercom during announcements. She said I worked hard and was always patient. (Ha! Have I got them fooled!) She also said something along the lines of me being a great music teacher.

Then there was the former student who was visiting the day I was getting over a migraine headache (the migraine being one of the lousy things). She saw me and gave me a hug and then started to sob on my shoulder, not out of sadness, but because she was so overwhelmed with emotion at seeing a teacher with whom she had connected. She had participated our production of The Lion King, and I think it meant a lot to her to be a part of a performance that was so moving and special.

Heck, I still cry happy tears when I think about it.

One of those crazy days, I was jogging after school with the kids' running club, and one of the third grade boys teamed up with me. Every time we ran a lap, he got a Popsicle stick. Every four laps earned the kids a green stick which meant they could choose a treat. He kept right up with me. He wanted those green sticks.

"I'm just here for the food," he said.

At the end of our run, he panted, "Whew! I am sweaty!"

"Yeah, me too," I said.

"What? You sweat? I thought girls didn't sweat."

"Oh we do, believe me," I admitted. I paused, then said, "Did your mom tell you that?"

"Yeah." 

One of the more touching incidents happened while I taught the fourth graders our final song for the Veterans Day Program. It is a song that we sing directly to the veterans in our audience, right before we thank them for their service.

I was on a time crunch and was hurrying through the song. I didn't even notice until our final run through that a couple of kids (including some of the tough boys) were tearing up quite a lot as they sang.

It reminded me to slow down and acknowledge what the music meant to my students. How, even if just for those two minutes, these kids learned a little about empathy. Through that song, we experienced something unifying and beautiful.

 

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

The Day the Squash Exploded

The Universe decided it was time for yet another domestic fiasco in the Duggan household.

You may recall that I set some quesadillas on fire a couple of years ago. In the blog post about that #adulting experience, I wrote:

"I should probably add ovens to the growing list of things I'm not supposed to touch, along with power tools, serrated knives, and open tuna cans."

And microwaves.

I had this really cute patty pan squash from the community garden, but I had issues slicing it while it was raw. So, like all of the kitchen divas I read about in my cooking magazines, I decided to soften it up in the microwave.

I checked the squash after nuking it a couple of minutes, but it was too tough. I microwaved it a little while longer. The squash was slightly tender but, in my opinion, still required unnecessary effort.

"A few minutes more, and it will cut smooth like butter, like butter, baby, like butter, like butter, baby . . . " I said, dancing around the kitchen, channeling my inner A Tribe Called Quest.

All of a sudden, an explosive pop erupted from the kitchen.

My husband, Dan, tiptoed into the room. Upon hearing me swear and seeing the mess of squash seeds and stringy innards dangling from the microwave oven, he announced he was going outside to do some yard work.

Side note: That is the quickest Dan has ever gotten around to mowing the lawn.

I guess it wasn't that big of a deal. I mean, I had to clean out the microwave in a major way.

And it's above the stove and oven, so I had to stand on a stool to reach it. That was a pain.

The squash was pretty much unusable. I ended up composting it.

I was stepping on seeds forever.

On Monday, I am making butternut squash soup in slow cooker. This time, Dan cut up the squash.

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

The Night I Was Visited By a Snake, a Pig, and a Vampire (RE-POST from 10/16/16)

You may think that I have been re-posting a lot lately. And you would be correct. I promise there is a new blog post just around the corner. Until then, enjoy this post from two years ago.  

Many of my faithful readers know I recently jumped on The Walking Dead bandwagon. Yes, I am still watching the show. No, I am not sure how long I will be able to stand it because my sleep is suffering.

My husband, Dan, doesn't believe that The Walking Dead is causing my weird dreams. He points to all of the night terrors and strange issues that have plagued my sleep for years. But I know The Walking Dead is playing a role in unleashing my dormant anxieties. Take, for instance, last night. I had three odd dreams, back-to-back.

"You can't blame The Walking Dead," Dan insisted. "None of these dreams were about zombies."

They were WEIRD though.

DREAM #1: Snakes (or something)

I was a teenager again (unfortunately), and I came home from school to find out that my mother and father had decided we needed five snakes. These were not normal snakes. They seemed somewhat prehistoric and made this sound, "rarr, rarr, rarr," as they hopped up and down in their cage, which was way too small for them.

"Those aren't snakes. They look like they belong on Medusa's head," I said. "Don't look them in the eyes. You may turn into stone." (Apparently, I make mythological allusions in my dreams.)

The cage was way too small for them. One snake hopped out. Everyone in the house freaked out. The snake shape-shifted into something resembling a scaly-skinned poodle and hopped over to me.

"Rarr, rarr, rarr!"

I held still so as not to alarm it and waited for it to go away.

According to my dream dictionary, snakes mean you are about to be seriously betrayed.

"It also says snakes mean you are enslaved by sexual passion," Dan read. "I like that interpretation better."

"You would," I said. "Besides, the sexual thing is only if the snake coils around you. There was no coiling. Just, 'Rarr, rarr, rarr.'"

DREAM #2: Baby Pig

In my next dream, I was an adult again and attending a class where we were learning how to herd escaped pigs into a pen. I don't even know if that's a thing, but in my dream it was. I picked up a baby pig, and I held it and cried and cried. I couldn't stop thinking that this cute baby pig who just wanted to run around and play would have to be confined to a pen. I couldn't stop crying. I woke up from this dream for a moment and was actually crying in my bed. I am still tearing up right now just thinking about the overwhelming sadness I felt.

My dream dictionary says pigs are bad news for work but good news for the family. Maybe Dan will get laid off at work, but we'll get to move somewhere fun like Portland or Seattle (or Canada if a certain orange-faced reality show star gets elected as president).

DREAM #3: Vampire With a Gun

In my third dream, I ran into a vampire I had dated a long time ago. It must have been a bad breakup because he was not happy with me. (I don't know what I did. This dream started in medias res.) He pointed a gun at me. It seemed unnecessary since . . . well . . . he was a vampire and could just drink my blood if he wanted to kill me. Love won out though, and he decided he liked me again. I don't know where Dan was in all of this.

"These dreams are not about The Walking Dead," Dan said the next morning. "Besides, you're reading a book about vampires right now."

(I am. My friend wrote a book. You should read it too.)

"The dream dictionary says a vampire means, 'You are full of fears for the future,'" I told Dan and then added, "of your husband losing his job."

"Where does it say that?" Dan said.

"Well, it doesn't say that last part, but it does say I am full of fears for the future."

"Becky," he said with a sigh, "that just sounds like your regular neurotic self."

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Top Five Fall Faves (RE-POST from 11/9/14)

I always enjoy rereading this post from 2014. I look forward to fall every year. 

I am one of those fortunate people who lives in an area with four distinct seasons.

And fall is here.

It's okay if you're jealous. I would be jealous too. Except, I live here . . . in a city . . . with fall.

Fall comes at the perfect time, right around the time I am getting tired of braving sultry afternoons and looking at people wearing not-so-sultry tank tops.

Here are some things that make the beginning of fall awesome:

1. Honey Crisp Apples
The first time I bit into one of these, I exclaimed out loud, "These really taste like honey! Apples and honey mixed together!"

"You sound like a commercial for honey crisp apples," said the person sitting next to me.

2. Pomegranates
It may be slightly messy to prep a pomegranate, but it is totally worth it in the end.

3. Pumpkin Spice Everything (e.g. lattes, breads, butters)
I occasionally indulge in pumpkin spice stuff regardless of the added sugars and syrups. I mean, there just comes a time when you've got to have a pumpkin spice latte.

4. Running
Running in fall weather is amazing. The air is crisp, not too hot, but still sunny. And the colors of the leaves are beautiful on the trails at this time of the year.

 

Minor confession: I seek out piles of fallen leaves on my path so that I can hear that crunchy sound under my feet. It probably arises from some subconscious, unmet need in my childhood.

5. Not having to mow the lawn anymore (says my husband)
This was Dan's contribution. I'm sure I'll hear complaints about raking up leaves in the next couple of weeks though.

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