Monthly Archives: April 2009

Someone like me

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You know, as I was straightening my hair earlier, I had a whole blog post composed in my head. Thanks to Tramadol, I have no clue what it was (and can’t type, either).

I have been having pain in my left hand/wrist and my ankles all day today, so I figured I’d take Tramadol so I might actually get some sleep. The pills are 50mg, so I cut one in half and it still completely wrecked me. I should not have been using a flat iron or hair drier. Hell, I shouldn’t even be using my laptop! I can’t not take this stuff — I do need to get some relief now and then — but no matter what I do it completely messes me up. Oh well.

So, what has been going on with me?

  • I have decided to leave my second day job, mainly because I have entirely too much on my plate right now. Fortunately, they still want me to do occasional freelance work for them.
  • I’ve had several nervous breakdowns in the last couple of weeks and am trying to find a therapist. I am one of the most stubborn people you will ever meet, and I never admit when I need help. I’ve realized that I am a lot worse off than I was letting myself — and everyone else — believe. I’m not too thrilled about admitting any of this, but I hope that it helps someone else out there. Maybe it will help someone realize that they need help, too.
  • I treated myself to a pedicure this weekend. My mom and I went to the nail salon after I got out of work on Friday. Mom got a manicure and her eyebrows waxed. I totally meant to take pictures of my awesome feet — there’s something about a pedicure that actually makes my feet look cute — but I’m a slave to the Tramadol right now and probably shouldn’t be allowed to operate a camera. Just know that my toenails are ORANGE and they are smexxy! (Yes, I just said “smexxy,” which is a leftover of my old LiveJournal days.)
  • I also treated myself to the new Blue October and Kings of Leon albums. For the record, if I hear one more person mistakenly call them “The Kings of Leon” — yes, I mean you, Mr. Radio Host Guy — I’m going to curse at my stereo, worse than EVER. (Yes, that’s all I’ve got. Sigh.)
  • I really, really want elizabethbarone.com, but some real estate agency has it for some unknown, unfair reason. This is just a random fact and probably has no significance whatsoever, except that it further proves how much of a nerd and no-life I am. Since elizabethbarone.com doesn’t expire until 2012, I was trying to come up with another domain name. So far I’ve got: elizawhat.com, elizabethkaylene.com, and elizabethkaylenebarone.com, all of which are available. I basically wanted elizabethbarone.com for a portfolio website, and of course for branding purposes, and the other ones just don’t pack the same punch. This is my sad face.
  • I spent today — Easter, as some might call it — sitting on my ass playing video games. For the first half of the day, however, I had no idea what to do with myself. This is what happens when a workaholic tries to take the day off.

Blah. I really wanted to write a better update.

Girl anachronism

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It’s that time of year again. That clean scent is back in the air, daffodils are popping up everywhere, and it’s raining, raining, raining. I’m not awake enough in the morning to remember an umbrella, but as I was walking the block from my parking lot to our office building I was suddenly overcome with nostalgia for our downtown library (which is, ironically, right across the street from my office).

When I was little, the highlight of my week during the spring and summer was when Mom would take us downtown. She scraped up change out of a yellow plastic cup she kept on top of the fridge and we rode the bus to the Green. We walked from the Green to the library, which was my favorite place. I could have anything I wanted, if only I just took the time to look for it. I basked in the old scent of the books — no scent compares, even now — and the wood shelves. I could get lost in those rows and rows of books. I fell deeply in love with the library and my little plastic library card.

After we picked out two or three books each (sometimes more), we would walk to Dominic and Pia’s, a little hole in the wall pizza place that has been around since Mom was a kid. They have the best pizza in the world, hands down. Just go ahead and try to change my mind. Dominic and Pia are an Italian couple. The entire restaurant is run by family and has gained its reputation strictly by word of mouth. There is barely ever a free table, and the little place usually has a long line during lunch and dinner. (I actually just recently went there for lunch with my parents, and both Dominic and Pia were still cooking. They’ve got to be in their seventies or eighties by now.)

When we were finished eating (which was always awesome because it was one of the few times we were allowed soda), we would walk back to the Green and ride the bus home. We’d spend the afternoon reading our new books and looking forward to the next trip. Those are the days I will always think of when I envision happiness, safety, love, and fun. Those are the days that will always immediately come to mind whenever I think of my childhood.

What’s your favorite childhood memory?

The cute, the fluffy, and the presumptuous

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It annoys me when people blog and do one (or both) of these things: close comments, or leave comments open but don’t respond to any of them. It’s haughty, and it makes me laugh at you.

I mean, I know we are all busy. I work two jobs, do freelance web design, run a not-for-profit, and work with my aunt on stuff for her business. I also attempt to have a life and spend time with my friends, family, and boyfriend. Sometimes, I even sleep. I totally get it if you would rather sleep than respond to my comment. Sometimes, I would rather sleep than respond to comments. But what, pray tell, is the point in blogging if you’re not going to interact with any of your cult followers readers? If someone takes the time to leave a comment on your blog and interact with you, you’d better be damn sure that you at least reply and say thanks.

And the people who completely close off comments? You just make no damn sense. Do you enjoy talking to yourselves? Because that’s basically what you are doing.

I can’t stand people who are so arrogant that they do these things. So what if you get over a hundred comments or are a published author? So freaking what? Come back to Earth, you clowns.

Elizabeth and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad morning

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This morning I woke up to NIИ’s “Not So Pretty,” and rolled out of bed, cursing 7:20 am and wishing I could just ignore work for a day. HA.

I stumbled from the bathroom to the kitchen debating boycotting breakfast (we really need to invent a new breakfast food; I’m tired of them all). I pulled the milk out of the fridge and a shock ran through my arm. I grit my teeth and bit down on my lip, and then the pain was gone. “Okay,” I said. “I’m gonna feel that later.”

I choked down a bowl of cereal (man, do I hate cereal now) and forced myself to go pick out some clothes. As I was pulling different things out and running outfits through my head, I slammed my ankle on the bottom of the bed. That one made me sit down. Trying to avoid unleashing a string of expletives and a pile of clothing into the wall, I swallowed hard and made myself stand back up. (My ankle finally stopped hurting about three hours later. Yeah.)

I picked out a white teeshirt, grabbed my white bra, and went into the bathroom. Before I even got the bra on — luckily — I noticed a long underwire dagger poking out of the bra.

“Well, fuck,” I said. “Guess I’m not wearing white.”

I’m down to one bra now, and I hate mornings more than ever.

We love you anyhow,
but you’re not so pretty now