An Open Letter To The Linux User: UPDATED

Dear Reader Who Views This Blog Using Linux,

Wow. At first I thought it was an arbitrary passerby. A fluke. But, no. You, Linux User, you show up on the regular and I'm a little intrigued by your choice in operating system.

Please, introduce yourself to the rest of the group.

Your Friend,

Libby

UPDATE:

There have been 22 views today from Linux users. And no one has stopped to say "hello". Come on, I know what operating system everyone has. I'll ask all the iPad users to say, "hi" next. Someone's got to start it!

A List of Specific Things That Always Seem Like Good Ideas. But They Are Not.

I just did something that had the potential to be pretty stupid. For several weeks I've been texting my friends, saying, "I feel like doing X ("x" is a variable for the stupid thing I did. Not drugs. Not drugs.), do you think I should?" And 100% of the time, my friends would say, "You absolutely should not do X. You will regret it and you will feel sad. Also, you will develop herpes. Probably." And I never did.

But then, this afternoon, I said, "Hey, what the hell? I'ma do it." And I didn't ask anyone because I knew they would say the thing about it being stupid. So I began this task and right as I hit the proverbial "send" button, my soul crawled up from my toes (little known fact: that's where everyone keeps their soul) and screamed, "No!!! Abort! Abort! Abort!" Luckily the gods were smiling down and that stupid thing didn't go very far at all but I'm not doing that again.

How's that for a vague intro/segue? For putting up with it, and for loving me, I give you:

A List of Specific Things That Always Seem Like A Good Idea

Until You've Reached The Point of No Return

Painting: I painted all of the trim in my living and dining room. I also painted the fireplace. You expect it to be a relaxing, creative experience that will take, oh, maybe an afternoon and with a little attention to detail, you will feel good about yourself for weeks to come. It's always nice when you can stock pile self-esteem without having to resort to sexual favors.

But does it ever work that way? It does not. The following is a look into the mental progression of deciding to paint a room.

1. Beige is so 2002.
2. Paint the walls!
3. So many colors to choose from. I'll go with Cordovan and then consider using that name for my first born. Cordovan will be such a sexy baby.
4. "I'll take a gallon of interior semi-gloss in... Cordovan." Then you whip your hair around.
5. Pouring paint into the tray is such a gorgeous activity.
6. Loading the roller brush with paint is such a satisfying activity.
7. Rolling the paint onto the wall is such a--crap. I'm going to have to do this on every wall. And not miss any spots.
8. And I'm most definitely going to have to do two coats.
9. Painting. Blows.
10. I'm out of paint so I must be finished.
11. I hate Cordovan.

Playing Truth or Dare. Playing Truth or Dare is like showing up to a job interview without pants. First of all, you don't play Truth or Dare unless you have a crush on someone at the party (so that's your interview). And it will always end badly. Always. It's a fact. You're hoping it'll turn into Spin The Bottle and you'll get hooked up with your soul mate. It won't. And we're 27 years old. I don't know how we even got invited to a party like this.

The first time that I played Truth or Dare, I was in the 6th grade and a group of us ditched out on Oktoberfest (which, in its prime, was a little like Mardi Gras for the youth of my very, very small town) and ran to a shed behind a friend's house where we said curse words and sat in fear of getting caught. Okay, that last part was probably just me. Someone suggested Truth or Dare and everyone was down. The problem is that 6th graders don't really have secrets and shockingly poor imaginations so all of the dares were "I dare you to kiss so-and-so." No one dared me to kiss the boy that I had a crush on. They only dared me to kiss Tevin. And I refused. In retrospect, that was probably not very good for him. That was, actually, quite rude. When you agree to play Truth or Dare, you agree to drop your standards at the door. It's the nature of the game. I left, disappointed because I didn't get to kiss that one boy.

In college, we drove out to the lake to play Truth or Dare. But we were in college and surprisingly lethargic. So, really, we just played Truth or Truth. I had a crush on a boy there, too, and I left disappointed because it was revealed that he had kissed someone else not that long ago. Truth or Dare: it's always, only about kissing. And you will throw up in the mud.

Wearing shoes without socks. It always seems like a good idea. All the cute girls can pull this off. Keds without socks. In shoes without socks, you're thin and light and airy and are probably wearing a sundress no matter what. Vampire Weekend plays everywhere you go. That is, for the first forty-five minutes and then when you're standing still, in line at Pottery Barn and notice that you're working on a blister the size of Delaware (you have such big feet) and you're no where near home. Once you nod in the blister's direction and acknowledge its existence, you will be, instantly, 40% crippled. Hobbling everywhere you go and yelling at your friends to wait up, you guys! They give you the finger and walk into American Apparel because they told you to wear socks. Now you hear Nickleback everywhere you go.

Watching Garden State: You're all saying, "Hey, I liked Garden State!" And of course you did. All of us of a certain age watched this film, birthed of Zach Braff's loins and handed to us still covered in the goop. And we loved it like it was our adopted, Asian brother. Never before had we been so understood. No one understands me! We sang. Our parents don't get us! Our old friends back home don't get us! Our psychiatrists are fucked up! Only Natalie Portman understands me! And then we set our MSN Messenger away message as "Off to explore the infinite abyss" and sat in the bathtub.

That was good. You sat in it. You stewed amongst your own obscurity and you went on with life and then you see Garden State on your bookshelf but anytime you pop it in the DVD player you think, "I never understood that Serpico joke." And you're irritated about what an effort it is for Zach Braff to see past his own nose but you know he'll never do it. I say watch it one more time, though--watch it with the commentary. Worth it.

Communism

Eating an Altoid: You think you need a mint. You buy a tin of Altoids because, they're curiously strong and your face is all up in everyone else's face all day and you'd like them to contemplate your curiously strong breath--in a good way. You want to leave a positive impact on the world. But there comes a point between popping it into your mouth and actually finishing it where you find that you're in a double dog dare with yourself. It hurts. Your nose is running. Forget it. It's made with mad amounts of sugar which is only going to give you worse breath than you had originally.Just spit it out. You win both ways.

So, What?

When I was in college I did a lot of writing. Okay, actually, the school I attended didn't offer near as many creative writing classes as an English major would appreciate but there were still plenty of sub-ideal opportunities for me to flex my muscle. Despite my complete lack of interest (which quickly turned into an absolute hatred for) journalism, I still signed up for nearly every one that was offered. I did not do well in those classes for the same reasons that I did not do well in any of my math classes: rules. My brain does not store knowledge of rules for any amount of time. I fully comprehend very, very few grammar rules. My grammar isn't terrible and I don't know how I spent so many years as a tutor without knowing the actual rules (anyone who does know the real rules and reads this has probably never been fooled). I know what works. I just don't know why. Wait. Isn't there one that's like "'i' before 'e' except after 'c' something something something 'neighbor' and 'weigh'." Yeah. There's that.It's a little bit like how Phoebe Buffay didn't really know how to play the guitar, she just knew how to play the guitar. No, she couldn't teach Joey or anyone else but she could still play (that was something that the audience just collectively understood about Phoebe--she actually really, really sucked at it).

In my journalism classes I worked so hard on putting words down and then organizing them into coherent sentences and then having to correct all of the rules that the damn AP Stylebook said that I broke that I'd overlook some pretty basic stuff.

For example, once I had to cover a speech that someone gave and I worked so hard at attributing and not accidentally taking things out of context and maintaining "journalistic integrity" that I forgot to mention anywhere in the article who this person was, where the speech took place or why he was even saying anything. Honest to God, I can't imagine what information I did include in article. My professor wrote at the end of the paper, "If you worked for a newspaper you would be so fired. [smiley face]" That was fair.

When I wrote for the newspaper (for the requisite two semesters--no more, no less) they had to create a student-profile column specifically for me because it was impossible for me to write articles about how construction was coming along on the seemingly hundreds of new buildings that were popping up despite our apparent lack of funding. Even that was a challenge, but at least I didn't have to stick to the facts. I made up all kinds of stuff about people--made them look really cool. That was mostly because I was super terrible at interviewing people. Anyone who has ever met me in real life knows good and well that simple getting-to-know-you conversation is so not my strong suit. I have a tendency to create a super awkwardness in first meeting people. I'm bad at basic things like returning questions. I answer questions in one sentence and then stare at you. I can only imagine what people think of me. Lucky for me, most of the friends that I have now are people that I was forced into getting to know. Or we have been together for years and there's no more room for introduction. Happy am I that people stick around for me. I had a friend who used to make me fake-interview him, just to work on my question asking skills. I couldn't do it. I'm not a role-playing kind of kid. I'd ask, "So where are you from? This is ridiculous! I know where you're from. Next question. What's your major? Damnit! I hate this." And that was about as well as it ever went.

So I thought that embracing creative writing would be ideal for me, and it would be except that I find that my strong suit is mostly in just making things sound really pretty but I can't push a story along very well. More often than not it was Professor Ness who gave us creative assignments. I think he knew that we didn't have a lot of opportunity to work with this. He had us write villanelles (still my favorite poem to write), flash fiction, free verse, stream of consciousness, I loved writing for him because he would actually try to guide you into a way to make your writing better (the actual creative writing instructor was kind of like a mom or a nanny who would say "that's nice dear" and not really give you any direction). More often than not, Prof Ness' notes on my papers would say, "This is beautiful but what's the point?" Half of that was flattering and the other half was crushing but he was right. He's still right. In my serious writing, when I'm telling stories I can do a really good job at making things sound wonderful and I can bring the story to a crisis. And then it's over.

I've been working on a story for a few weeks now and I finished my first draft but I'm reading it and I keep thinking "what's the point?" I had a friend who, when I asked what he thought of my writing, said that he loved reading it but when it started getting good, I'd always end the story. I went on a tirade using all sorts of cliches about "artist's vision" and about how he didn't understand me and was free to make love to himself.* Ugh. But he was right.

Oy with the self-improvement.

*According to Anne Lamott, this sort of reaction is completely normal. If you have a writer friend who asks your honest opinion and you decide to give one, even in the most delicate of methods, your writer friend will more than likely go on a murderous rampage. Do not dismay, she will always come out of it and she will be ashamed and more able to accept criticism.

What Can I Do For You?

It's no secret that 2011 will be the year of the search for shameless, relative internet celebrity on my part. And let's not pretend that you don't want me to get famous, either, if for no reason than for your own entertainment. You'll love it. Everybody wins.

The thing is, though, that I'm a pretty non-exciting person. For example, my most ideal Saturday night involves no more than three close friends, no more than eight beers and no less than a couple of hours of Boxers or Briefs (which is absolutely what I'm using my Amazon gift card for). In my world, no one accidentally ends up at roof-top parties. There are almost never any fire-breathers or jugglers involved. I have yet to get black-out drunk and at 27 I think I'm past the point in my life where that could be considered a respectable night. I think I've firmly established myself as one of the most low-key and expertly cautious (possibly to a fault) girls on the block. That being said, I still believe that I can entertain you. You know why? Because my Friday nights are your Tuesday mornings--sort of an "it's five o'clock somewhere" philosophy.

Now, I have an open notepad on my desktop where I keep post ideas, topics that every successful blog that I read has covered at some point--some that we will get to eventually.

• My Most Serious Injury
• My Favorite Job
• How I Shop
• How I Earned My Worst Karma
• Self-Indulgence
• Why I Love My Hometown
• Why I Hate My Hometown

But I ask you, oh, people who want something to read when your kids go down for a nap/ when you're on your break at work/ when you are procrastinating against the dishes/ when you are staving off sleep:

What do you want to read about?

And you'd better hurry up because next up on my list is My First Period.

(And, as always, it's in your best interest to read this on the original page if you're mildly interested in links and making me feel better about myself)

I Wrote A Letter To Latvia, But You Can Read It.

Dear Latvians,

How are you? I am fine. It will be Christmas in a few days and I still haven't seen any snow. I'm trying not to be bummed about that, but thanks for asking.

Thank you for visiting my blog. I have only recently become aware of the fact that I'm so popular in your land. When I say, "popular" what I mean is that there have been four visits from Latvia in the past week and even a few the week before. Understand, this is an unexpectedly large percentage of traffic for me.

Admittedly, and probably unsurprisingly, I'm a pretty typical American and when I say "I know nothing about Latvia," I mean that I wasn't even convinced that it was a country until I wiki'd it several minutes ago. I have learned some exciting (hopefully) true things in my research. Here are several things that I learned about your land. Please alert me to the truthieness of this research. American friends, get ready to do the learnin' dance.

Latvia has a pretty straightforward flag and that's what I like in an identifier. One year, I spent Christmas with some people who, by and large, absolutely did not know me. They were, incredible, loving, gracious people who fed me, cleaned me up after I passed out in the shower and vomited--if I'm remembering accurately--all over every square inch of their bathroom and they gave me gifts. One of those gifts was a fleece blanket featuring the American flag. The American flag is pretty bold and difficult to incorporate into a classy design scheme. But you, Latvians, obviously you knew how well a throw blanket featuring your country's stripes would work in my living room. My birthday is in October, thanks.

In the 13th Century, a pretty big chunk of your territory was conquered by Germans. Then came Polish and Lithuanian management. Then there was an eleven year Polish-Swedish War and, guess what, Poland lost and Sweden got to keep you. This surprises me, honestly, because nowadays everyone pretty much assumes that Sweden's a pretty quiet, non-threat but I guess even Sweden went through a rebellious period. This is like that time that I found out that Barbara, my youth leader, used to be a stripper. That was unsettling for more than three different reasons. Poland kept fighting with Sweden even though Sweden clearly won fair and square until they called trucies-no-takebacks in 1629. Turns out that Sweden was good to your turf, though, so I'm happy to hear that.

So Sweden's in charge and everyone's happy and singing "summertime and the livin's easy" and driving around with their hands out the window when out of nowhere (and for reasons that I can't really follow) you eventually ended up with Russia in charge. Skip ahead some hundred years and now you're all Latvia (I guess) and you joined NATO in the 90's and the European Union in 2004. Congratulations! (I say that because Wikipedia says that was one of your goals--so I say reach for the sky, Latvia.)

Seriously, though, if you're from Latvia and you're reading this (and you're not offended--I sincerely hope you are not), then few things would make me more thrilled form hearing from you. Also, could you tell me a little about Jāņi, starting with how to pronounce it?

Fingers crossed!

Libby