In which I wish a dead author well

Happy 200th birthday, Edgar Allan Poe!

In which I guest-post

Image via WikipediaImage via WikipediaMy brother and his friends have a blog, and were kind enough to let me guest-post for them. So go check it out, and feel free to browse around. Just be warned -- the language is most definitely not safe for work.

The Biblioholic and the Anachronistic Onomatopoeia

In which I ring in the New Year

Image by Kramchang via FlickrReally, a conversation I had with a friend of mine on AIM says it all...

Me: [realization] Awww crap.

Friend: ?

Me: I didn't check *any* items off my things-to-do-before-I-die list this year.

Me: I had given up on most other resolutions, but I was really hoping for that one.

Friend: Oh.

Me: So last night, I was like, "OK, so do I want to ring in the New Year with Ryan Seacrest, or with Carson Daly"?

Me: The answer, of course, was, "No."

Me: So my parents and I watched my new Dr. Horrible DVD, including special features and about half of "Commentary! The Musical."

Friend: cool

Friend: I did neither -- I waited until 11:58 to put on Channel 6 to catch Dick Clark one last time.

Friend: I had a migraine, actually.

Friend: First time I've gotten one.

Me: I was mildly annoyed at the ball drop.

Friend: Yeah, Clark was a second off the countdown.

Me: Waterford was all "Every year will be a unique ball with a unique pattern," and, dude: the ball was exactly the same as last years

Me: I saw last year's up close, and no joke, they could have ripped that thing out of Macy's and reused it.

Friend: "We need to figure out how to fix the city's budget deficit."

Friend: "How about reusing the ball?  That saves 5 million right there."

Me: Oh, at least.

Me: But this is Waterford.  They had those things ready to go in '88.

Me: Just sitting there, being pretty and waiting for the appropriate LED technology to be invented.

Friend: ...Why?

Me: Hyperbole, dude.

Friend: Not with Waterford.

Friend: They do pull that sort of [bleep].

Me: Point is, W got a contract, and you know they were all over that [bleep].

Me: So even if the city decided to reuse, they' d still have to foot the bill.

Me: Ergo: two matching balls.  Which.... yeah. 

The good

I know better than to do New Year's Resolutions.  This year, I'm setting monthly goals.  It just feels more realistic.  Wish me luck!  (Oh, and remind me to share my things-to-do-before-I-die list one of these days...)

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In which I ring a little bell

Let me start with a little Christmas Cynicism. I do not drop coins in the Salvation Army kettles. I know that, unless the bell-ringer is in uniform, s/he gets a cut of the take (those in uniform might, as well. I just don't know). I also, cynically and likely unfairly, doubt that many bell-ringers are actually reporting the full take. I'm not going to throw rocks at the bell-ringers, but I'm not going to toss in any twenties, either.

Instead, I give directly through the Salvation Army website. Even if it costs, say, 10% to process my credit card, it's still less than they'd have to pay a ringer, so the organization gets more of my money.

The Salvation Army has a program called Online Red Kettle. This year -- and you should be able to see it in my sidebar -- I am hosting one of these. So I have three challenges for my readers, and I encourage you to take up at least one:

1) Donate to my kettle. After my little bout of Scrooginess, I feel obligated to tell you that I'm not taking a cent that goes in. You want to give to me? Awesome, we'll talk. You want to give to the Salvation Army? Click on the kettle.

2) Start your own kettle. Encourage your readers to donate. Beat me. I dare you.

3) Join my team (or start your own). Want to team up with me? Look for the Not Boring Challenge. Want to beat us? Start a team here.

Dynamic fundraising meter for your Red Kettle campaign.

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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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.