In which I make a suggestion

Image by Brian Hathcock via FlickrAn open letter to Barack Obama

Dear Mr. President-Elect:

First of all, I would like to congratulate you on your election.  You're surely aware that the eyes of the nation, and the world, are on you, and my prayers are with you and your family as you take this next, monumental step.

I was pleased to catch part of your press conference this afternoon, particularly when you mentioned the dog your family will soon be adopting.  I took especial interest in the two conflicting factors your family is considering in choosing your new family member: the dog being hypo-allergenic, and the dog coming from a shelter.  Both are very important, and I salute your decision to give a home to an animal that truly needs it.

I would like to suggest that the two factors are not mutually exclusive; far from it, in fact.  Do you have a particular breed in mind?  Airedale terriers, greyhounds, and poodles are just three examples you've no doubt considered, and all three, like nearly all breeds, have breed-specific rescue groups.

These groups are dedicated to finding good, loving "forever homes" for dogs of their breed of choice.  While I can't vouch for every group out there, my family has had excellent luck with the National Greyhound Adoption Program, or NGAP.  Beta, our greyhound, is good-natured, well-behaved, and a full member of the family, not a mention a retired professional athlete (albeit not a very successful one).

Mutts are wonderful, and so many of them are intelligent and friendly.  However, if breed specificity is a requirement, and when it comes to allergies it can be, please consider a breed-specific rescue.  These animals need homes and love, which is just what you and your family are looking to give your new pet, and you would provide an excellent example to the American people.

Thank you very much for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Laura Grow

What do you think?  Should I send it?

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• How to Choose a Presidential Puppy

In which I go to the parade

Image by Getty Images via Daylife In 2005, I attended the Village Halloween Parade as a class assignment. This is not the official article I turned in.


We were packed a little too close for comfort – or chastity, for that matter. Darkness and masks kept things fairly anonymous.

This was to be expected at the Village Halloween Parade.

“Excuse me!” screamed a man as he shoved his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath when the people around him would not give way. Police officers – some real, other perhaps not – used their authority to cut across the street.

At 5 foot 2, I knew the only way I would be able to see anything would be to wear the highest heels I own. That’s exactly what I did, but a life in sneakers left my ankles a little weaker than is ideal for the boots I had chosen. Between that and the jostling of the crowd, I managed to lose my balance.

The man who caught me was very nice, setting me upright and asking if I was all ok. I responded honestly with a smile and a thank you.

Nearby, two girls were talking. “I would have grabbed his balls if I were you!” one instructed the other, her voice taking on an angry edge. Some pervert had rubbed up against her, I figured.

The crowd pressed in, and the helpful man was pushed against me. I was poked from one side; the woman to my right had a handbag that was pressing against me.The woman left soon, and then so did the group to my left. The crowd shifted to account for the change in available space. The man behind me did not take advantage of the space next to him. I wondered if he noticed, and wished I had access to it. I was blocked off.

I felt another poke. The woman with the handbag was long gone by now, so I half-concluded, half-hoped that it was the man’s hip. I shifted away when I could, and he shifted right after me. Everyone was filling in what little space was available, so I accepted it, even when I realized it was not, in fact, his hip. A straight man pressing against a woman sometimes has certain reactions. I reasoned that it was natural, and probably very embarrassing for him. Accidental gropings are a fact of tight crowds. I was annoyed, but perhaps a
little amused. This would make for quite a story when I went to the bar later that night, I decided.

Even so, I tried to inch away. The man in front of me noticed that I was a bit uncomfortable. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking mildly concerned. Once again I smiled and said thank you.

The man behind me began moving. At first I thought it was more crowd-related shifting. Then, I noticed a rhythm that accompanied the poking. I decided to ask the man in front of me for help, planning to simply say that the man behind me was making me uncomfortable, and could we maybe switch spots? But before I could say anything, the man left.

“Are you ok?” the man behind me asked.

“Yeah,” I snapped, turning around to see if I could recognize any identifying features. All I caught was a racial description and a hat. I tried to slip into the spot the other man had just vacated, but I was followed.

There were hands on me. First my hips, then my waist. Again, in a crowd, accidental gropings happen. I glanced behind me again, but got no more information. The police, about ten officers a few yards away, could not see me, and I knew if I made a fuss, they would not hear me, either. I would have been more likely to anger the man behind me. Also, I was still not entirely convinced that anything was actually happening; If I don’t believe it, I reasoned, How can I expect the police to?

I steeled myself to endure it until I got an out. Every few minutes, groups were sent across the street, so I resolved to join one.

The hands were moving, and they definitely belonged to the man behind me. I tried to make myself trip again, hoping that maybe I would fall and in the process push him away. It did not work.

His hands slipped under the jacket of my suit, touching skin.

I grabbed the hem of the suit and tugged down, snatching the fabric out of his hands and allowing no space between it and my body.

I then turned.

I have no idea how I pushed out of the crowd, but I did. I briefly considered walking a few blocks to another corner, now that I was away, but before I could reach a conclusion, someone bumped into me. Pressure, on my back, right where the man had been rubbing against me. I turned around, frightened, expecting to see him.

It was someone else. Different race, no hat, very confused-looking. I choked back the tears that had just started and ran as quickly as I could on a crowded sidewalk while wearing those damned boots.

My instinct was not to call my mother or my boyfriend. All I could think was, Damn it! I don’t have enough information for a story. That, and, So I fail. There’s no way I’m going back.

The good

Well, in the end my professor told me that the above was well written -- that it made him very uncomfortable, which was a sign of talent. If it made you uncomfortable, I'm very sorry -- it could have been much worse, and for far too many women, and men, it is.

In which I get rid of books

I want a library. I want a room of my house to have huge shelves well-stocked with good books, comfy chairs, and appropriate lighting. Artwork and curios would be ideal, but not necessary. Maybe a station for my writing, although I'm probably better off having an office space with fewer distractions (ha, like I'll have the time and space to pull off both!).

I certainly have enough books to fill a library now. The problem is, I don't -- can't -- read them all. So over the next several months, I plan on sorting through the crates and boxes and shelves of books I own, and making four piles:

Favorites. Books I love, and will definitely re-read. Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow. Anita Diamont's The Red Tent. Heck, Little Women, which I actually replaced when my old, battered copy finally died. I am always looking for new books to fill this category, and am willing to lend them to friends (at least, friends I trust to return them!).

Resources. Dictionaries. Style guides. Poetry prompts. Organization manuals. And other books, which may be more trivial or less wholesome. I may not read them out of love, but I'll refer to them out of necessity. And, yeah, sometimes fun. I'm a nerd like that.

To be evaluated. Books I haven't actually read yet, or never finished, or read too long ago to inform a decision. These will be read. If I can't read them, or don't like them after having finished, then they go on to...

Elimination. It'll be hard, but the books in the section have to go.

Now this raises a new question. What should I do to get rid of these books? I've got a couple options that will directly benefit me:

Sell them. A good option for textbooks (the nice thing about having been an English major is that most textbooks are fairly timeless). Novels, however, may not pull in more than a dollar or two. And where would I sell them? Is EBay really the best choice?

Swap them. This might be a better option for the novels and fluffier nonfiction. I can offer some books up on Paperback Swap, and get new books in return. My reading list is pretty long, after all. Then again, that doesn't really eliminate books so much as it rotates them.

Raffle them. I have a review blog. There are books I've read that I enjoyed, that I might even recommend, but that just don't make it to my "Favorites" or "Resources" piles. If I review one of these books, maybe I could then give it away as a promotional event. If it works, it could definitely draw in readership. If not, I'm out the cost of postage with nothing to show for it but an empty spot on my bookshelf.

What would you do?

The good

No question, I'm blessed to have such a love of reading and the means to amass such a collection.

In which I battle PennDOT

Image via WikipediaImage via Wikipedia Image via WikipediaI don't drive.

No, I should be honest here. I can't drive.

I got my permit at 16, took driver's ed, and just never took the test. My permit expired. Between carpools and and mass transit, it never got urgent.

But since I don't actually know where I'll be living a year from now, I can't depend on trains and subways and buses being readily available. So I need to learn to drive. Again.

On October 4, I gathered up my ID info and my forms and took the bus to the PennDOT center in town. I signed in, took a number, sat down in the waiting area.

I then proceeded to pull out my things, so I could present them easily. As I checked against the form, it turned out something was missing.

It never occurred to me to see what the requirements to prove state residency are. I have a PennDOT-issues state ID. It never occurred to me that it wouldn't count.

So of course it doesn't. So I left, got back on the bus, went home. I dug up some tax forms and ate lunch, then headed back into town.

I signed in, took another number, organized my things again, and was called up to the counter. The guy behind the counter asked if I had my birth certificate.

Now, the form says I need my birth certificate or two of the other forms of ID listed. I really wasn't interested in dragging my Social Security card and my birth certificate around all day, so I had opted for "two other forms."

The PennDOT guy pointed to a sign on the wall and said that the requirements had changed. That said, I could still take the permit test, and if I passed I could bring my birth certificate in another day and they would issue the actual permit.

Fine. Whatever. I had made the trip (twice) and might as well take the test.

I passed easily, took my eye test, and had my form signed so that next time, they could just give me the permit.

On October 11, I re-gathered all my things, including my birth certificate, and got back on the bus to take get my permit. I fully expected them to make me re-take the test, but I could deal with that.

So I got to the PennDOT center, and... they were closed.

Confused, I looked carefully and noticed a very small sign that explains that, due to the Columbus Day holiday, the PennDOT center is closed on Saturday.

So: still no permit. Maybe some higher power is telling me I'm not supposed to drive?

The good

Well... at least I passed my permit test.

Update

10/18/2008 -- Success at last. I showed my documents, wrote my check, and left with me permit. Any PA drivers want to barter for driving lessons?

In which I attempt to get fit

Image via WikipediaImage via WikipediaImage via WikipediaImage via WikipediaImage via Wikipedia

So Chris and I decided to do the One Hundred Push Up Project.

When we did our initial assessments, Chris managed to do 50 push ups in his trial.  He's right on the borderline of the Project being completely useless.

I did... 3.  Well, if I'm allowed to cheat and do knee push ups, I can do 12, but that's still pretty sad.  And Chris won't let me cheat... and since he's only doing it to keep me motivated (since he obviously doesn't need to), I guess I can't.

"That's not pathetic," he said.  "I'm just stronger than you."

"Well, sure... but 20 times stronger?"

"It's not 20 times."

"Fine.  Just under 20 times stronger."

"...Yes."

For the sake of accuracy, it's 16 2/3.

So I'm pretty sure this 6-week program is going to end up taking most of a year, and that's assuming I don't plateau out.  But either way, wish me luck, and I'll keep you posted.

The Good

I don't exercise nearly enough.  Even though Chris doesn't need to do this, I'm glad he is to encourage me.

Update

9/21/08

So I'm now legitimately up to 12 push ups as my max.  It's four times my original max, which is good.  It's not enough to pass the week 2 test, though, so I'm currently repeating week 2.  Sigh.

10/8/08

After a few false starts, I'm chugging along through week 3.  I can do 16 push ups in a row -- barely.

10/28/2008

Yeah, so I failed the post-week-4 endurance test, so I'm repeating week 4.

Also, Chris wants to use the formula to start doing sit ups on our "off" days.  Since we haven't been spectacular on our every-other-day routine, I'm not sure how this will work out, but we'll see.

1/10/2009

And once again, I fail, this time in the face of the post-week-5 test (yes, it took me that long to repeat week 4 and do week 5). I can do 45 in a row, so go me. I need to do 46 to go on to week 6. Bah.

In which I visit the Tribute WTC Visitor Center

Image via Wikipedia

A scale model of the World Trade Center greets visitors.  Playing on a television screen on the wall, and projected onto the white plastic scale-model buildings stretching overhead, is a video about the culture and community of the World Trade Center: two people in Twin Towers costumes dance for children a la Mickey Mouse at Disney World; happy couples dine at Windows on the World; shoppers head underground to buy everything but groceries; parents bring their children to work, so that they can enjoy concerts festivals, and puppet shows; office workers hear live music through their windows.

The World Trade Center is referred to as both a city unto itself and a second home.

A panel keeps the pleasant nostaliga seperate.

This panel tells the tale of the 1993 bombing in the underground garage of the north Tower, which killed six people, including a pregnant woman, and injured over a thousand.

The back wall of the center is a bright sky blue, broken up by pictures of "Missing" flyers, first one, then a few, until the wall is more black-and-white that blue and the flyers overlap.  An older woman calls, "Here he is!" and her companions gather around one man's picture.

Across from this wall is another, exhibiting artificats of Septermber 11, 2001: a piece of airplane, parts of a building, cell phones and wallets, a souvenir stuffed lamb and guns.  Between the two walls, more panels feture quotes from survivors and audio or rescue calls.  One firefighter's mangled coat and helmet stand in a display case next to a television screen playing the story of the rescue and recovery efforts.

There are two memorial lists around the corner.  One is an alphabetical list of those killed in the 1993 and 2001 attacks.  The other is a projection, listing the same people and their ages, organized by affiliation: firehouse, business, police station, airplane.  The walls around these lists are actually display cases full of photographs and mementoes donated by family members. Visitors choke back tears, or give up and cry openly.  The Tribute Center is prepared for this: on every bench sits at least one box of tissues, and volunteers rush to offer tissues to weeping visitors in other parts of the Center.

Visitors go down a flight of stairs to the final gallery, a white room ringed with images and quotes of the world offering its sympathy and good wishes.  Stories told by survivors and family members play through earphones, and slips of paper decorate the walls in what becomes a mural-like guest book, offering visitors' names and hometowns as well as their thoughts and prayers.  Many of the displayed sheets show not paragraphs, but pictures drawn by young children, who label them, "I miss you, Daddy."

The good

You know, this really is a phenomenal museum and memorial.  I only hope the official memorial center they're building will be jsut as nice -- and I'm sure it will be.

Linky goodness

I really don't want to get into detail about why right now, but I highly recommend this series on metal illness by Dave at The Prodigal.  I want to applaud Dave both on the candidness of his writing and the thoroughness of his research.