tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261055212024-03-07T01:29:32.814-05:00In Her Shellwonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.comBlogger310125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-15805934248216743462011-04-03T16:29:00.003-04:002011-04-03T16:30:37.030-04:00I'm Back, BabySo... I tried to stay away. I thought it was over. But I miss this. I'm going to be back. Anyone who is still checking in, stay tuned.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-69372305197563476702010-08-07T12:37:00.003-04:002010-08-07T12:40:23.529-04:00Moving the effortsAs I've neglected this blog for a good six months, it's time to move the efforts elsewhere. I've loved pushing myself to write, and to publish, and I've been truly grateful for your comments, and have loved getting to know some of you through your writing. If you're curious, please check out <a href="http://nextblogpoetry.blogspot.com/">Next Blog Poetry</a>, where I've decided to run with (or at least trot with) one of my favorite ideas to come out of this endeavor.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-10700559714627088862010-01-09T17:22:00.003-05:002010-01-09T17:53:31.169-05:00Why I Should Be Allowed To Call Myself 'Retarded'I'm a teacher, so I know all about the scarring effects of name-calling. I also know that words have a lot of power and can contain violence.<br /><br />This week I think I may have said "I feel retarded" to a Special Ed teacher.<br /><br />I was driving home when I realized this and felt horrified. But then I thought, 'retarded' really just means 'slow,' like a <em>retard</em> in music. I was feeling retarded when I asked the question of my colleague. Not fundamentally different in intellectual capacity than an average woman of my age. Just slow.<br /><br />It wasn't until the mid-seventies that children with disabilities were declared legally deserving of a free and appropriate public education. Before that, if you had braces on your legs and couldn't handle the stairs up to Biology, they could shut the doors on you and say, "Sorry, no thanks." If you had a learning disability you'd probably just be tracked into a vocational course at school, and if you had Down Syndrome, nobody would even think of sending you.<br /><br />Before that, the preferred term was "Feeble Minded," an umbrella which could include everyone from the insane to the developmentally disabled to the promiscuous or just plain rebellious, especially if you were a woman. These people, so labeled, often ended up on "farms," sprawling campuses with dormitories and manual labor and often some form of abuse, including forced sterilization.<br /><br />So it hasn't been very long that civil rights and liberties have been guaranteed to people with disabilities in this country, and things like IDEA and the ADA were huge steps up. Of course, prejudice persists. Once mainstreamed into the general population, at least at school, all the childhood stories with disfigured, limping 'monsters' predisposed lots of kids to fear. It's getting better, but still isn't a great situation, as with most prejudices.<br /><br />But these kids, in classes, were called "retarded," because they were slower than the average kid. Then the average kids started calling each other 'retarded' when they said something stupid, and the whole thing went downhill. It's not the most flattering name in the best of circumstances, I admit. But it is a fun word to say aloud.<br /><br />Being aware of how far we've come in being sensitive to differing abilities, and how far we still have to go, when I recognize slowness in myself, shouldn't I be able to identify it with a cool-sounding word like 'retarded'? If I don't apply it to anyone else? I didn't feel stupid when I had a question for the Special Ed teacher. I just felt, well, sort of slow.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-23516178330960004512009-12-17T19:52:00.003-05:002009-12-17T19:56:44.556-05:00Wonderturtle......has a cold.<br />...has been overwhelmed with professional and personal committments.<br />...has been planning the wedding.<br />...has not gotten any of her holiday shopping done. Any of it.<br />...has started thinking in mundane, snarky, one-sentence observations, instead of paragraph-long, poignant observations with ironic accompanying pictures.<br />...feels bad about not blogging.<br />...feels good about getting many comments on her mundane, one-sentence 'updates.'<br />...knows that it's Facebook that has (hopefully temporarily) muffled her creativity.<br />...held out for a really long time before succumbing!<br />...sees its merits.<br />...will be back.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-69116636452834438742009-10-03T10:34:00.004-04:002009-10-03T10:44:04.180-04:00Why I Don't Watch Television, or Brooke Shields Why?I don't have television anymore, primarily because I am very susceptible to advertising, and I think it is evil. However, I still enjoy some television shows, which is why the Internet is wonderful. Lately though, my excellent ad-blocking software has opened a loophole that allows my favorite online television site to squeeze through 10- and 30-second ads in my programming. This is infuriating, but I can usually ignore or quickly mute them.<br /><br />This week, though, Brooke Shields appeared on my computer lamenting her "inadequate or not enough" eyelashes. Another makeup ad, I assumed. But no, Brookie is now shilling a <em>medication</em> to <em>grow thicker eyelashes</em>. If you don't believe, watch it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VqRyv8abWR4">here</a>, and take special note of the bizarre side effect warnings. It could be a great SNL digital short if it weren't so <em>completely horrifying</em>. And if another news story hadn't just popped up on my Google News Spotlight about another woman who fell into a coma and became braindead after a "routine liposuction." And my students still tell me that feminism is no longer relevant, or needed.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-1176172964329747302009-09-25T18:41:00.002-04:002009-09-25T18:43:21.735-04:00New BlogPlease be sure to check out <a href="http://thegoddesswrites.blogspot.com/">The Goddess Writes</a>, gorgeously and hilariously written by my dear friend Elizabeth. My favorite sentence so far:<br /><br />"In these dreams, there was nothing anyone could do to stop me. I was a penguin kicking bad-ass."<br /><br />See what I mean?wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-40090241979684709992009-09-20T17:05:00.006-04:002009-09-20T17:26:57.048-04:00Unsettling Thoughts On A Tragic Death Made Symbolic<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4VJSSD-Prd5DZiKnwoamSYw3STdEG3O25PHigj5jjs-yiQReOAkymwV0-cNVaIiif6j6171HRXAMxuO5fOtiPg1lwuEb2uATMyXuFhyphenhyphen3Zo43Vs2xol5DCHPwZwUt56EwAweN/s1600-h/aristotle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4VJSSD-Prd5DZiKnwoamSYw3STdEG3O25PHigj5jjs-yiQReOAkymwV0-cNVaIiif6j6171HRXAMxuO5fOtiPg1lwuEb2uATMyXuFhyphenhyphen3Zo43Vs2xol5DCHPwZwUt56EwAweN/s320/aristotle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383662002339495714" border="0" /></a><br />Like many others I've been following a Connecticut murder case involving a pretty young woman whose body was found stuffed in a wall on the day she was supposed to be married. Just as I was starting to think up a blog post about my shame in this voyeurism, about all the disappearances and murders that aren't covered by the national media or cared about by so many, articles started popping up in Google News to that very effect. The comments section of <a href="http://features.csmonitor.com/globalnews/2009/09/18/media-frenzy-over-yale-murder-draws-criticism/">this article</a>, while disturbing, got me thinking about what draws our attention to certain tragic stories, and it made me think about old Aristotle and the classic tragic hero. So the question is, are we gruesomely fascinated by Annie Le because she was "true to life and yet more beautiful," because her plot was "of a certain magnitude"? I teach my students about Oedipus, Macbeth, Antigone. Do we find it so hard to look away because it's scary that this could happen to someone so high up on the social ladder? Does it make us feel more vulnerable? Or is there some creeping schadenfreude that reassures us that intelligence, beauty, money and power don't insulate people from random cruelty and violence? That wants to generate some rationale, some narrative, to show that she must have had some hubris, done <span style="font-style: italic;">something </span>to cause this, that it couldn't have been so random, so violent? That wants to see how the mighty have fallen? Here is a woman who was killed. She is one of many who are not so roundly mourned but also not so roundly analyzed. She is not one of many but only herself, and irreplaceable.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-8504513892224340952009-08-22T09:15:00.005-04:002009-08-22T10:03:01.829-04:00Thank You, Mrs. ExleyI never liked gym class, but in kindergarten it wasn't so bad. Still, my favorite days were when we gathered around the edge of the big parachute, each gripping a bit of the rim. Holding it low to the floor, we made ripples across the surface like choppy water. Mrs. Exley would call out a student's name and he would get to stand and walk across it. She called it "walking on the moon." One exciting day, she called my name, finally, but it was harder than it looked. Giant steps really are what you take.<br /><br />After the moon walk we would stand, still holding the edge, and on Mrs. Exley's command lift the parachute high above our heads, then bring it down behind us and quickly sit our bottoms on the edge, grinning at each other inside our bubble until the air seeped through the hole in the middle and we had to crawl out.<br /><br />Yesterday, on the fourth and last day of our canoe trip, we saw lightning in the distance and pulled our metal canoes up to the bank. As they caught up in the third canoe, R. said we should have waited for them; this was private property we were bumping up against. But the clouds got darker and the wind kicked up, and I held the dog's leash as my friends struggled in the sucking mud to tie the canoes to a tree. We scrambled up the slipping, sliding hill but the dog would not come until she was sure everyone was following. A. reached the embankment first, but it was lined with trees and a small branch fell and glanced off of him, and someone shouted that we had to get out into the open. An air horn sounded in the distance. We ran up the next hill, a little ways out onto the golf course, A. shouting "stay low!", fat drops starting to fall and more lightning. C. was unfolding the big blue tarp, throwing it to us, and he gave a command and we all lifted it up above our heads and brought it down behind us, sitting along the edge. For one terrifying moment Anthemsled wasn't in there with us, but then he was and we all sat in our little bubble, looking at each other. We smiled in dazed disbelief. We made jokes about the manicured grass and sang "Row Row Row Your Boat" and talked about the stupid camp games we could play, all the while wincing when we saw lightning flash and silently counting the beats until the thunder followed. The dogs lay down on our feet and went to sleep. My glasses got foggy and I took them off. The wind changed the shape of our tarp, and the rain lashed at it and came through a little. Every once in a while we would vent it a bit at the bottom, and the grey world outside looked positively orange compared to our blue one, like a sunset in the middle of the afternoon. Through one of these vents I saw headlights approaching; the rain had started to let up. We had been anticipating the rap on the tarp, being asked to leave. We said we'd be polite, we'd go if we had to, but when the men arrived it was only to ask if we were OK. Later, in the warm car, we saw how many big trees had been felled by this storm, and that's when I started to feel scared for us back there, in our bubble.<br /><br />Last night the lightning and thunder cracked so loud above our big safe bed that I quailed, and cried a little, in gratitude.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-60630180935110695992009-07-19T23:03:00.003-04:002009-07-19T23:20:40.427-04:00A Loss<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQokhLNqKk6j4OVd4MHc4ql6RzZAkywiGZJF6pmOwoKcm-6enhBDhI-YqTRLZ2yv5xeoXSEL-H_6ZM6Bhf-52YrTVZ8Gt81enqfC_Fzq-Nj2b7AZwYVoQHgqL8sBKZi_bma7pE/s1600-h/frank+mccourt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQokhLNqKk6j4OVd4MHc4ql6RzZAkywiGZJF6pmOwoKcm-6enhBDhI-YqTRLZ2yv5xeoXSEL-H_6ZM6Bhf-52YrTVZ8Gt81enqfC_Fzq-Nj2b7AZwYVoQHgqL8sBKZi_bma7pE/s320/frank+mccourt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360376648381243874" border="0" /></a>Frank McCourt, 1930-2009<br /><br />"There’s no use saying anything in the schoolyard because there’s always someone with an answer and there’s nothing you can do but punch them in the nose and if you were to punch everyone who has an answer you’d be punching morning noon and night."<br />-<span style="font-style: italic;">Angela's Ashes</span><br /><br />"After a full belly all is poetry." <br />-<span style="font-style: italic;">Tis</span><br /><br /></div>I can never seem to get anything really done in a summer day. One, maybe two things--a visit, a few chapters of a book, some phone calls--but summer is torpid and winter is still, they lack the industrious preparatory spirit of spring and fall.<br /><br />I floated through the day today, not really doing much of anything, and now Frank McCourt is dead and it seems like an important day. Though I was never his student I feel like I've lost a teacher, or a kind neighbor. I got to hear him read a couple of months ago, and he was clearly ill and tired, but still wry and dry and funny as hell, and I'm so glad I went.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-15866113510548404252009-07-13T20:52:00.002-04:002009-07-13T21:09:00.972-04:00Something Is Wrong With Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOB1UtYCJWZTM7hzwDSZi1dpZXo7YSz1YxWoDdkHZsjZeBcXwQq7AWxXgbkL2fCAcAlGs9l3kSiVhgsOwFW09Sf2DNmOARDdaxf1mWZbGAJzeFATXRVBZcJ7aSs-HkGCAb78Q/s1600-h/john_krasinski_weird.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOB1UtYCJWZTM7hzwDSZi1dpZXo7YSz1YxWoDdkHZsjZeBcXwQq7AWxXgbkL2fCAcAlGs9l3kSiVhgsOwFW09Sf2DNmOARDdaxf1mWZbGAJzeFATXRVBZcJ7aSs-HkGCAb78Q/s320/john_krasinski_weird.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358116394362220466" border="0" /></a><br />This staggering conclusion was reached this afternoon when I persisted in leafing through <span style="font-style: italic;">Martha Stewart Weddings </span>(Summer 2009), which I had actually PURCHASED this morning, even though it had just been the catalyst for a ridiculous fight with Anthemsled. L. told me when we got engaged that I wouldn't have to bother buying any of those wedding magazines, because people would just give them to me. Pff, I thought, I don't want those stupid wedding magazines anyway. Which I guess everyone could tell because no one gave me any. So I had to go out and spend six dollars on this one.<br /><br />I wouldn't spend six dollars on a used paperback in an independent bookstore this weekend, but I would spend six dollars on this. Exhibit A.<br /><br />I think it's the ennui of the summer. I know no one will feel bad for me on this, but as a teacher, most of my creative energy goes into my job, and most of my bitching energy goes into complaining about that. But now, two weeks into my vacation and I am gnawing on wedding shit like a beaver who needs to keep filing down his teeth.<br /><br />Some brief research into past In Her Shell summers supports this. When I wrote anything, it was largely about celebrities or weird dreams I was having. Or both. Exhibit B. Last week I dreamed that I was in a play with Amy Poehler, Maya Rudolph and that doofy guy from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Office</span>. Maya Rudolph warned me not to get too close to him, but I was intrigued.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-84504254426560433212009-07-06T18:11:00.002-04:002009-07-06T18:12:48.428-04:00Dear Everyone,Don't put music on your website. It's annoying. It does absolutely nothing for me except create an immediate antipathy toward you and whatever you are selling.<br /><br />Regards,<br />Wonderturtlewonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-14766799624565340202009-07-06T13:59:00.002-04:002009-07-06T14:08:08.315-04:00Belated Fourth Of July Post<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsC05lOvGRnNvzDbWsMXlClPk0tW82nitXNW_oI6uap_9mB74zYprDEYV8CVmg31wU35t5M89aDllDxZv9AcvLEVQfrPgAqZLFcc2FqZS8Hl5yUcoBwAOm3afhXekPJBvnaAUC/s1600-h/us+flag.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355410206670183826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 286px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsC05lOvGRnNvzDbWsMXlClPk0tW82nitXNW_oI6uap_9mB74zYprDEYV8CVmg31wU35t5M89aDllDxZv9AcvLEVQfrPgAqZLFcc2FqZS8Hl5yUcoBwAOm3afhXekPJBvnaAUC/s320/us+flag.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>from Tagore, <em>Gitanjali</em>:</div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><br />Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; </div><br /><div>Where knowledge is free;</div><br /><div>Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;</div><br /><div>Where words come out from the depth of truth;</div><br /><div>Where tireless striving stretches its arms toward perfection;</div><br /><div>Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;</div><br /><div>Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--</div><br /><div>Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.</div>wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-30181625376007206642009-07-03T16:40:00.003-04:002009-07-03T16:51:27.146-04:00Next Blog Poetry*Mi clase de Yoga (Os conflitos)<br /><br />And from the front of the house...<br />I went fishing for the first time today.<br />It is the hallmark of exclusivity.<br /><br />This is the kind of wild boar I'm talking about<br />It comes in 4 colours, and I decided to get the electric blue one,<br />and who should greet us first, but Mrs. Mallard:<br />Oh well, we have 3 ducks in the freezer, so better than none!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*Each line from a different "Next Blog." I realized that it seems to be a July tradition of mine.</span>wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-35015040698654243062009-07-03T16:16:00.003-04:002009-07-03T16:19:24.230-04:00Friday RevelationThe beach is actually really boring.<br /><br />This goes right up there with I don't actually like yogurt. Or New York City.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-69403847348425714912009-06-02T20:47:00.003-04:002009-06-02T21:08:33.480-04:00Insight Into Me, For Those With A Morbid Curiosity, Or: Why I Haven't Written Anything For WeeksOh ma ga what if it rains? What if it's so hot people are miserable and don't want to dance? What if we can't find a venue we like or agree on? If we can't afford what we want? If the food isn't good? Where are we going to find a cool rabbi that we feel a connection to? How am I going to explain to all the sensitive people in my life what their roles will be during the ceremony? How do people pay for this without going into debt? What if we manage to pay for it, or put it on credit, or whatever, and then the boiler breaks? This photographer website looks really cool, I must have her. This one looks cool too. This one looks cool too. Who will alter my dress and how do I explain exactly what I want? Hm, a forum for brides in the UK. I think I will read it for ideas, even though I can't take most of them because they all relate to living in the UK. I must pore over this forum, I must read every word. What is the optimal combination of search terms for "unique wedding venue NJ" that will unlock Google's treasure trove of unique wedding venues in NJ that I know it is hiding from me? Am I a bad person if I order calla lilies in bulk online and arrange them myself, even though they are not native to this area or in season, and were probably grown with illegal pesticides by exploited child laborers? I'd like to have barbequed ribs, and also sushi, and speakers with an Ipod. I'd like to feel more confident when calling caterers. I'd like our wedding to be a perfect, shining, beautiful, clever expression of who we are as people and where we've come from and where we are going, individually and collectively, and I'd like everyone in attendance to smile the whole time and exclaim over how cool everything is and stay until the very last call, when they drag their feet off the dance floor with a kind of sweet despair that it ever has to end. I'd like to not care what people think. I'd like to do this knowing that everyone, everywhere has the right to do this and be legally wed. I'd like to turn off the computer and stop thinking about it.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-72858146280575561822009-05-14T19:33:00.003-04:002009-05-14T19:51:48.597-04:00Dear Barack Obama, We Are In A FightNot to be a stalker or anything, but I sent a strongly worded (and, perhaps, even inspirational) letter to you through your online "form." It was about merit pay for teachers. I asked when you would be forming your task force on education and I secretly hoped you would ask me to be on it. But I heard nothing back--not even an automated e-mail saying thanks for the message we read them all but kiss off.<br /><br />I did, however, receive positive feedback on my letter when I modestly e-mailed it to all of my family and friends.<br /><br />A few weeks later, passionate enough about it, I printed out my strongly worded letter and, after attaching a Post-It note with a little FYI about the online "form" snafu, snail-mailed it to you at the White House.<br /><br />Still nothing.<br /><br />I mean, it has been <em>weeks</em>! For someone who is purportedly "committed to creating the most open and accessible administration in American history," you are really falling down on the response time. For Pete's sake, George W. Bush used to write back to me all the time! We were regular pen pals! Of course, he had a real e-mail address, that he could set up with an automated reply message. He probably did not have, as <a href="http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact/">your website </a>advertises, a Facebook, Twitter, or MySpace page. Dude, I don't have one of those either.<br /><br />I really believed in you, and now you don't even stand up for <a href="http://features.csmonitor.com/politics/2009/05/09/polar-bear-ruling-brings-obama-and-palin-together-like-spring-love/">polar bears</a>. What the heck.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-57315852339617414142009-04-30T20:00:00.003-04:002009-04-30T20:09:11.976-04:00Missed The Memo1. A friend at work just bought a house and casually said to another friend, "Well, we'll have to finish the basement because it just has a living room, no family room, for the TV and stuff." Forgive me, I love the idea of keeping one's TV hidden away, but I absolutely missed the memo about houses needing to have a "family room" or "den." I did have a friend growing up whose house had one, and I thought it was a cool extra feature, but could not for the life of me figure out what they did with the "living room," since for all the years I hung out there no one ever used it. My house growing up had a tiny living room where we hung out, laid around, watched TV and entertained guests, and it was good enough for us, dagnabit!<br /><br />2. Not using the front door. What? Twice in my formative years I was dropped off at a friend's house only to stand forlornly, knocking on the freaking door, only to have the friend finally figure out I was there, and let me in, the whole family laughing their heads off because I went to the front door. Definitely missed the memo there; why the hell did they have a nice walkway up to it with scrubby suburban bushes on the side if no one is supposed to use it? And how was I supposed to know that? Jerks.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-62555141447539235882009-04-19T09:32:00.003-04:002009-04-19T09:42:45.147-04:0010 YearsI was interning in New York when we saw the news about Columbine High on TV. This one changed everything, even though there had been shootings before and would be shootings after.<br /><br />Then, and now, my heart still goes out most to the parents of the shooters. Their children died, but no one grieved for them. Their children were killers. I searched for a while this morning for anything about them now, but found that they've stayed pretty quiet over the years as they were sued by parents of victims and pursued by reporters. It's best, I guess; what could they possibly say?<br /><br />It's very popular to blame all children's behavior on their parents. It's very easy, and sometimes very accurate. But I've witnessed children spin out of control in my own family, with parents who were just imperfect human beings who did the best they could, and still carry the terrible guilt for how it all turned out.<br /><br />The lone news article I could find this morning in my search about the Klebolds and the Harrises had only one reader comment at the bottom: "If kids were a stock on Wall Street, no one would invest in them."wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-32320268634441120432009-04-08T11:25:00.008-04:002009-04-08T11:53:51.510-04:00Brief History Of Balm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0qWx0-DMBGo5DaaZWJetble__Ah8xRkvQ1pmWLf3NfTChIubAxCPCzWkaz5uC9GbjlmKtD1X5KGfDwSKjKude1EO9GateLhIxmsMYu8cC3hm5NVFT-b9vMVxzwS9pmRNKmXW/s1600-h/chapstick.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0qWx0-DMBGo5DaaZWJetble__Ah8xRkvQ1pmWLf3NfTChIubAxCPCzWkaz5uC9GbjlmKtD1X5KGfDwSKjKude1EO9GateLhIxmsMYu8cC3hm5NVFT-b9vMVxzwS9pmRNKmXW/s200/chapstick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322346232950138834" border="0" /></a>When I was small and on the school bus, I would take out my Chapstick and put it on over and over again, pretending it was makeup. It felt thick and smelled thick, but plain or cherry, it was mine and I loved it.<br /><br />Later it was Bonne Bell lip gloss, the kind you squeezed out of a clear plastic tube or applied with a wand. Girly and shiny, it was also gooey and messy. When we figured out that Blistex achieved the same or even a better shine, and was way cheaper, we converted, and enjoyed the satisfying masochistic burn.<br /><br />In high school we felt cool with little pots of gloss from places like The Body Shop, which you had to stick your finger in to use. This made it harder to share (an important ritual) and harder to maintain one's nails (also important), so while cute, these little pots got little use.<br /><br />Softlips was my favorite in college, because it combined the convenience of Chapstick with the tingle of Blistex and the shine of gloss, while still feeling light and non-sticky. I thought I had met my lip balm mecca, but it was expensive and each tube ran out quickly. After graduating I shifted my allegiance to Burt's Bees, which was also expensive and came in lots of tantalizing, but ultimately weird-looking, "tints." It made me feel virtuous.<br /><br />Yesterday I found an old tube of Chapstick and put some on. It didn't smell like chocolate or tingle or shimmer. It smelled thick, and felt thick, and incredibly satisfying.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqaieF6GrROpth_m8EPeFaBx-vBDNy_KZNoPG8rhnj5rIvAKRkVgsHnlhaKL8aNM1PlNYehQXHHtFu1CfxOqALoB-ESlyeVce9QwgmgDCNzaALNsCCFR3caIT-X5wXOOAn7xr9/s1600-h/bonne+bell.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 97px; height: 97px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqaieF6GrROpth_m8EPeFaBx-vBDNy_KZNoPG8rhnj5rIvAKRkVgsHnlhaKL8aNM1PlNYehQXHHtFu1CfxOqALoB-ESlyeVce9QwgmgDCNzaALNsCCFR3caIT-X5wXOOAn7xr9/s200/bonne+bell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322347449551375490" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_apOaVH0xNZigTUnBuV3JmUGKRvpBiqZDCa22M7Xqkywg9HIXC4Xxs7sU9vWdIXev9Bin1mCF2x6ImnmX_KIybjYK0cKvkmmp0D1vFHyMv-UuJrXXMDLrNRHi6ejSwk3wRseK/s1600-h/softlips.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 101px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_apOaVH0xNZigTUnBuV3JmUGKRvpBiqZDCa22M7Xqkywg9HIXC4Xxs7sU9vWdIXev9Bin1mCF2x6ImnmX_KIybjYK0cKvkmmp0D1vFHyMv-UuJrXXMDLrNRHi6ejSwk3wRseK/s200/softlips.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322347455547732994" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulEu7KlMhzUJsnMEgowjjWJZheRRTixkQSjnf67aFcq3A_0F8fb-ZoXUD1vBDr1NhYaVqZ2Nsex0ra9LvHl2VpSMhxV0IG2uLiJRF-Bkaois0efE1y21u-GJgKjR0S6-e7aIo/s1600-h/body+shop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulEu7KlMhzUJsnMEgowjjWJZheRRTixkQSjnf67aFcq3A_0F8fb-ZoXUD1vBDr1NhYaVqZ2Nsex0ra9LvHl2VpSMhxV0IG2uLiJRF-Bkaois0efE1y21u-GJgKjR0S6-e7aIo/s200/body+shop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322347450605436274" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuNO0hCXTw7FLyGx5RsGZ7R5zWAPF9AgUmj-V1e-JZKRYPAVgUfaSOLluqhbHxrRCcwDX7iI7pICsImOPS9hwSIlgmFKXium4PY1bFDdnQkVoH5yyiD4Gaf6HV_M58mNlxSf2j/s1600-h/burts+bees.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 104px; height: 101px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuNO0hCXTw7FLyGx5RsGZ7R5zWAPF9AgUmj-V1e-JZKRYPAVgUfaSOLluqhbHxrRCcwDX7iI7pICsImOPS9hwSIlgmFKXium4PY1bFDdnQkVoH5yyiD4Gaf6HV_M58mNlxSf2j/s200/burts+bees.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322347455757197490" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-UPwfOnjA8vfMy28S56jRqiZO-uDEypzJzizvpQCtVb1mYIwieDtXJgn5z_MvqVWcF1sawHSUGfeZEvU5dVMzVre7Y-dVFztdSzK0r6Zr7dPK7bv1QbiX_vYCDVs5DkMV2mi/s1600-h/blistex.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 93px; height: 107px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-UPwfOnjA8vfMy28S56jRqiZO-uDEypzJzizvpQCtVb1mYIwieDtXJgn5z_MvqVWcF1sawHSUGfeZEvU5dVMzVre7Y-dVFztdSzK0r6Zr7dPK7bv1QbiX_vYCDVs5DkMV2mi/s200/blistex.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322347450101067074" border="0" /></a>wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-43606515709541977732009-04-05T10:45:00.002-04:002009-04-05T11:02:06.283-04:00Happy Birthday to GmailFive years ago I was teaching my first advanced course at the high school. Even though I was probably overwhelmed and surprised by their abilities in contrast to the kids I'd had the year before, I still think they were some of the sharpest I've had.<br /><br />I got a Gmail "invite" (because you had to be <span style="font-style: italic;">invited</span> to use Gmail) from one of those students. A strange, awkward, outspoken girl who usually excelled in math and science, she didn't believe me when I recommended her for the gifted program in creative writing. She would e-mail me all the time, long, rambling philosophical e-mails that I thought carefully about before replying. She didn't understand when one of her classmates started a Gay-Straight Alliance, bluntly asking (because that was how she asked everything--bluntly) why it was needed. When I explained as best I could about education and equality, a look of excitement came over her face and she exclaimed something like, "We can just show them the evidence that it's biological, and then they won't be able to be prejudiced!" She became the club's first secretary, and came out after she graduated.<br /><br />But before all that, and after she invited me to Gmail, she disappeared from my class suddenly, and I got a note from the Guidance Counselor that she was in the local hospital's psych ward under observation, because she had written some things about hurting herself. I wondered about all those e-mails she had sent me, if there was something in her challenging, dark ramblings that I should have recognized. At the time I was still a relatively new teacher, just trying to respond as best I could to my students. I hadn't accepted her invitation to Gmail, wouldn't get on the Gmail train until that summer, when <a href="http://landolulu.blogspot.com/">Lulu </a>converted me. Then I just hoped she would be OK, and five years later, she is.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-79790759199750231642009-03-29T11:14:00.004-04:002009-04-04T17:13:33.077-04:00The Real Reason<div align="left"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318629217359138818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 260px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uhmn9LsIUA-Sv8TyqHNptE2e0GTRUg0UmVS9ksBgupZVk8KL5JOaiNJHlmF0x7NdxY_sCyUGLbqGZn1T8wyGR4Jz-1HbT4nFfTls0snHBSTPSkbseIY8CqY062XMLCCXYzMG/s320/madonnas+entourage.jpg" border="0" />Madonna has been <a href="http://edition.cnn.com/2009/SHOWBIZ/Music/03/29/madonna.adoption/?iref=mpstoryview">discouraged by a UK charity </a>from adopting another child in Malawi. Perhaps they are concerned about her insistence on keeping a zombie and a vampire in her entourage. </div>wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-57429782827579228892009-03-19T18:29:00.003-04:002009-03-19T18:47:43.060-04:00Used<div>I was looking around my house today, evaluating my stuff.</div><div></div><br /><div>This was primarily motivated by the fact that we were about to have a major appliance delivered, and whenever there are delivery people or workmen about to come into my house, I wonder vaguely whether they got into this business so they could case houses for their primary business of robbing houses, and I look around my home and think about whether, if I were a house-robber disguised as a skilled laborer or delivery person, there is anything here I would bother to come back for, under cover of darkness. </div><div></div><br /><div>This is a part of my general paranoia. When I was little I convinced myself that it was plausible that a robber could get caught in my house by surprise when we came home, and be sneaking from hiding place to hiding place for weeks. For years I checked behind every closed shower curtain before going to the bathroom, just out of habit.</div><div></div><br /><div>Casing my own joint today, I thought that even though I have "a lovely home," and a wonderful embarassment of riches, it's not what you'd call robber-worthy. Almost everything (with the exception of this appliance, which was just delivered by two kind men who even set it up for me even though we didn't pay for that) is used. </div><div></div><br /><div>I started thinking about the time in my life when I didn't buy anything new. I shopped exclusively in used record stores, used book stores, and thrift shops. It hadn't yet been packaged as 'recycling' or 'repurposing' or 'keeping it out of a landfill.' It was cheap. And so much more of a stalking adventure, to dig through a disorganized mess and come up with a gem, even if it was scratched/falling apart/didn't fit. It was only $2!</div><br /><div></div><div>I still shop in those places, but not with the same fierce loyalty. I still love the cheapness and the weird people there, the unique stuff you find and the way it makes your self, and your home, a true representation of you, and not something anyone would bother coming back to steal.</div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315033933877858722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgibI85Wo0o-mg7PxFWyubjEb4H2xF4Fs6Wy3J7vwspQe6DKtsh7uAeJpN3b9ZNvTdGwBBzj96OcGh0XYyqP-qBDt5nSStA_F7djp6WL90IH3oJzMUv8jtfwxTtoBACNMZ5FgW9/s320/thrift+store.jpg" border="0" /> <div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">This is not me. But what a perfect ambience, right?</span></div>wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-66815624246804963272009-03-17T20:24:00.002-04:002009-03-17T20:27:35.193-04:00Another Thing I Feel Bad About (St. Patrick's Day Edition)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsX01bm8bvU8alOjQGouX7FXmz_bq4dHeSQaOIqhs3r-wbB7RaUKmtyrTOmvqzOJ8T5Z5VjqCtczbgDN6JK4DJC2G6RyE0sCWNduFSzt2JvYu1m8nwzotV68z83JIPyz-5uDic/s1600-h/st+patricks+day.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsX01bm8bvU8alOjQGouX7FXmz_bq4dHeSQaOIqhs3r-wbB7RaUKmtyrTOmvqzOJ8T5Z5VjqCtczbgDN6JK4DJC2G6RyE0sCWNduFSzt2JvYu1m8nwzotV68z83JIPyz-5uDic/s320/st+patricks+day.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314317838887091442" border="0" /></a><br />In fourth grade on St. Patrick's Day, I told Rob Hammer I was Irish when he asked, even though I had no idea if it was true (it wasn't). He seemed happy, though, and smiled at me. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sigh</span>.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-57263536621401803892009-03-11T20:12:00.002-04:002009-03-11T20:19:11.320-04:00Things I Feel Bad About1. I regularly foist books on other people and insist that they MUST read them. Then, if they don't read them right away, I get irritated. However, I prefer to pick out my own books and when someone loans a book to me I procrastinate and rarely finish it.<br /><br />2. I can't stop watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Veronica Mars</span>. Someone loaned me Season 1 and even though I think it's pretty bad, I watch 3 episodes every afternoon and will continue until they run out. I've had <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uHwrr6NV-IU">this song</a> in my head for the last week and today I actually IMDB'ed <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0230655/">this guy</a>.wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26105521.post-39506640246952738312009-03-08T10:16:00.003-04:002009-03-08T10:20:12.216-04:00My New Favorite Video<div style="text-align: center;">The first time I watched this, I laughed so hard I was crying. <br />Still a good mood-lifter.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cXXm696UbKY&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cXXm696UbKY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div></div>wonderturtlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00075465519565901903noreply@blogger.com6