Dear Governor Rendell,

First I need to tell you that I've never written to a politician before. It's a little weird for me, so I ask that you bear with me as I try to channel my outspoken, opinionated, constantly-writing-to-some-senator-or-other grandfather.

I know there's a lot going on these days. A lot of money that needs to be saved and spent and all that. I'm not going to pretend to be some kind of expert, but you guys are talking about doing something that I completely and utterly disagree with (among other things, but that's for a different letter):

You want to cut library funding, which is of course bad. But cutting it by 34 percent?! That's not just "cutting" funding, my friend. No. That's like giving an obese family of four a pb and j sandwich, but only after you licked off all the peanut butter. I know times are tough and you need to find money somewhere, but seriously. What are you thinking?! Libraries take up 0.3 percent of the entire state budget. Cutting their already tight budget by 34 PERCENT is in no way acceptable or fair.

And because of these proposed cuts, libraries would have to cut hours and even close branches. This is very not cool. In times like these where everybody (it seems) is unemployed and broke, we need libraries more than ever. Us masses need free access to computers for job searches, free books to train for a better or new career, and just as important, a friendly librarian face to bring us out of our funk.

And this is where I can speak from experience; I might even get emotional. One of the libraries which will likely close is my own local branch. Just last year, I was one of those jobless funk folks. But my library, the Beechview location of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh group, helped me in so many ways. I had just moved to Pittsburgh, just lost my job after buying a house, and everyone and everything I knew and loved was five hours east. But that Beechview library was my haven. I borrowed novels and movies to escape my worries for a little while and of course, I found books to help me learn more about the line of work I was trying to find a job in. I made a friend in Audrey Iacone, the librarian there. She was always happy to see me and full of ideas of books I might like and who I could talk to.

And I was not alone. I always saw people in there, doing the same thing I was. Not to mention kids working on their homework and families picking out books together. It was a right utopia, like "Leave it to Beaver" or something. I'm not even kidding.

Not only that, but the neighborhood of Beechview is trying and working so hard to revitalize themselves, to make changes, bring in more business, to find their pride again. Taking away that library would only give Beechview another empty storefront to be depressed about. Libraries in any neighborhood are a vital community center; they're the only place where everybody, no matter how little or how much they have, can congregate and find culture and knowledge and even opportunity. It makes me sad to think that, should Beechview ever attain its goal of a neighborhood renaissance, a vital piece of the community puzzle will probably be missing.

So anyway. I know you have a lot on your plate. I know you think you've got bigger fish to fry. But I am sincerely asking you, please reconsider these cuts. Please. PRETTY PLEASE. These cuts are not for the greater good.

Ok. I'm done begging. Thanks.

~mandy

The most intimidating man in Pittsburgh

I have just met David Shribman. As executive editor of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, he has been called "the most important newsman in Pittsburgh." I would add that he is also the most intimidating, and he bought me lunch.

More than an hour has passed since we parted ways, and I am only now starting to digest parts of our 30-minute or so talk. I walked away completely dazed and having no idea what just happened. I have never felt so baffled, so completely disoriented in all my life. I think I ate a salad because he said I used the least amount of dressing he's ever seen. I ordered water. He ordered half orange juice and half cranberry juice with a slice of lime. And we ordered all at once. He didn't want to order a drink and then his meal, he wanted it all at once.

He is quite possibly the smartest person I've ever met. He knows something about everything, he sporadically quotes literature and he eats faster than he walks and talks. And he drilled me, thoroughly and completely. He wanted to see what I knew and what I was about. I know what you're thinking. What's so bad about that? It's easy to talk about yourself. But you, my friend, were not talking to David Shribman.

I would barely finish taking in his question and barely begin to answer it before he would ask me another. He asked me what I liked to do when I wasn't working, who and what did I read, (was it old or contemporary? What authors? - he gave me time to think, and yet, I could only think of three, and one of them was J.K. Rowling), and he put me on the spot when he asked me to make fun of Pittsburgh. He asked what I was working on now, what I would do if I didn't get the job, he asked if I liked sports, he asked about my family, what my parents did, what sort of things I liked to write about. He asked me what made me tick, he asked what country Prague was in (which I couldn't answer—I was too flustered. When he said it was the Czech Republic, I knew he'd never believe me if I told him I actually knew that already). He asked if I knew the nine Supreme Court Justices; I didn't. (The two I once knew either retired or died.) When he found out I'd been to Taiwan, he said, "Then you know what country Taiwan is part of, right?" I said, "Well, it...it's complicated." Then he moved on to something else before I could explain. All I could do was hope he knew I meant that China considers Taiwan part of their country, but Taiwan doesn't really consider itself part of China. At one point, he raised his palm and said, "You can relax." It was a command, and it didn't help me relax. I only got more nervous, knowing he could see how uneasy I was.

He told me what he was looking for in order to be worthy of the Post-Gazette and rattled off a litany of supremely high standards and, at times, seemingly oxymoronic qualities ("witty, but not too witty," "savvy, wise, knowing, but approachable" "like the New Yorker, but not as..."). Then he said, "Do you think you can handle that?" I just looked at him. I had been wondering the same thing myself. I didn't know, still don't know, but I was willing to give it a shot. I had nothing to lose, except my pride, and that was gone the minute he opened his mouth. So I grinned. And then I nodded, albeit feebly.

There's more, but I think I blocked it. I'm sure it will all come back to me in nightmares.

Eventually, the waitress came by with the check, and he was studying it before I knew it was even there. She said, "Have a nice day," and I looked up at her. She was looking directly at me, waiting. I said, "Thank you, you too" and she walked away. It was invisible to Mr. Shribman, I'm sure, but we had a moment, that waitress and I. We understood each other. She was sympathizing, wishing me luck with this polite, but commanding and fast-talking important man. I was grateful that I was not the only one intimidated by him.

And so, as quickly as it started, it was over. He said he enjoyed it, but I honestly don't see how. I didn't exactly provide stimulating conversation. CNN was on one of the TVs in the restaurant, and after glancing at it, he said, "Oh, Clinton is in North Korea." I looked at the TV, not having a clue why Clinton would be there. I felt like he was prompting me to make a comment, but I knew nothing about it. So I said nothing, which of course, says everything.

We walked outside, he shook my hand. I think he might have smiled; I don't recall if I smiled back. I said thank you again and walked away in the opposite direction, not seeing where I was going. I took a corner and stopped. I stood in the shadow of some large building and just stared, letting the busy street swallow me whole. (It couldn't have been hard, considering Mr. Shribman had just chewed me up.) I tried to decide whether I wanted to laugh or cry.

Then I walked a few blocks to Macy's, where I bought two more pairs of black pantyhose for my Holiday Inn uniform. I don't imagine I will be leaving there anytime soon.

Local goon acquires sparkly ring

So this crazy thing happened the other week: I got ENGAGED.

I know! I told you it was crazy. It was a complete surprise too. Well, not a complete surprise. I knew by our third date we were getting married some day. But I didn't know that, three years after said date, he was actually actively working to make it happen. Sneaky little bastard.

So here's what happened. It's Sunday, April 5, the day we planned to go on a picnic, the picnic he has been talking about all week. I wake up and it's sunny and beautiful, perfect picnic weather. But he's gone. I hear banging in the kitchen and investigate. He's there, making breakfast. There are flowers on the counter that he drove 10 minutes to steal I mean cut from some garden somewhere while I slept. I'm impressed.

"Wow," I say. "What's all this?"

"It's supposed to be breakfast in bed," he says.

I do the math in my head: The night before, he baked cookies. Later, we'll be going on a picnic. Now, he's making breakfast and stealing flowers. Yes, I'm definitely impressed. But also slightly nervous. What the hell did he do?

I decide I don't care at the moment because he's making his amazing pancakes and scrambled eggs with cheese. When they're all finished, he makes me go back to bed so it can truly be breakfast in bed. The bedside table is decorated with the fresh flowers.

We eat and talk and joke around. He seems a little off, a little on edge. Something's up, but I can't help feeling cheerful and content. He keeps asking me if I've finished eating. I vaguely wonder if he's trying to poison me. And so, my belly full of possibly poisonous pancakes, I decide to find out what's really going on.

"Did you do something bad?" I ask, already knowing that he didn't because he wouldn't.

He laughs a nervous little laugh.

"Well," he says. "I have something else for you."

"Is it cookies?" I ask.

"No," he says. "I wanted to ask you something."

There it is. Something clicks loudly in my brain, and I start to sweat a little bit. I am suddenly very aware that I am still wearing my mismatched pajamas, my hair is standing up everywhere, and I have not yet brushed my teeth. Meanwhile, he is digging around in the pocket of his jeans.

"Mandy..." he says. "Will you..."

And that's all I really hear because at that point he is holding in his long skinny fingers a beautiful sparkling ring. My brain is buzzing. My heart is pounding. I'm overwhelmed with every happy emotion possible, including relief. I can't stand to look at the ring, it's too much, and I cover his hand with mine. Something in me releases and completely escapes from the confines of my body. The proverbial floodgates open, and I bury my head in his shoulder, shaking with tears. All he can do is hold me and silently freak out.

"Oh my God Kevin," I manage to mumble through tears, "I can't believe you're doing it. I can't believe you're really doing it."

I give him kisses upon kisses all over his face. I cry and laugh and cry. He laughs and cries with me. Finally, he says, "Well...what do you think?" And I manage to say, "Of course." Then he places the ring on my finger, and we laugh and cry some more.

It's a beautiful ring, a princess cut diamond in a simple setting with a white gold band. It's my kind of ring.

"It's too bad you don't get anything, huh?" I say.

"I get you," he says.

Yeah. He's that good.

Later on, we call our families and go on that picnic. He says he was going to ask me during our picnic, but he couldn't wait. I tell him to ask me again, and he does. My answer is still the same.

Periodically, throughout the day, he says, "So whaddya think? Wanna get married?" My answer is always the same and always will be.