Perpetual Smile

So, I’m trying to figure out this whole social media thing. I understand how to use it for business. I understand how to use it for personal stuff. It’s the two together that I have a problem with.

Everything was going well, until co-workers started friend requesting me on Facebook and I started maintaining our company’s page on Facebook. Instantly, the game changed. Obviously I couldn’t just deny their friend requests. That would be rude and difficult to explain to them face to face on Monday. Where I was once careless and didn’t give a shit about what got posted where or what I said, I was suddenly frantically deleting status updates, notes, comments — anything that might get me in trouble or frowned upon. People at work like me. They have no idea that I’ve got a potty mouth, so I didn’t want to dirty up my professional image.

Not too long ago, I noticed a comment on my blog from a co-worker. Obviously I don’t restrain my inner trucker around here; I figure, I pay for the site, so I should be able to say whatever I want, and fuck what people think. This is the way it should work, right? Wrong, probably. I can’t really write about work here, because who knows if something I say might upset someone. I should probably not swear, in case one of my clients finds this. I mean, you can Google my name and this blog is one of the first things you’ll find. Hell, my (now-private) Twitter account @elizawhat is on the first page when you Google “Elizabeth Barone.”

This is all very good for my internet rockstardom, but what happens if a client reads a blog post about my chronic pain, my depression, my miscarriage? What happens when a co-worker who might have it out for me reads a post with a whole slew of yet-to-be-invented profanities and turns me in to the big wigs? No one really wants to read about how shitty my entire April has been, or how so-and-so is being an even shittier friend.

Despite this blog’s title, things aren’t always so sunny around here.

I haven’t exactly been careful with the above mentioned Twitter account, either. I have been using it as if I were talking to friends, as opposed to potential clients and colleagues. I created a second account, @elizabethbarone, for my professional/business contacts, but do I really want to maintain two accounts just for me? Do I have to keep two separate personalities on the internet, just like I have in real life (work me, regular me)?

I envy those of us bloggers who can live off of their ads and other stuff, rather than having to worry about their bosses reading their blogs. I mean yes, I get that you should just keep certain things to yourself if you don’t want anyone reading it, but we all have our moments where we want to rant and get that ego-stroking feedback. We all want to share things with other people, which is what makes the blogosphere so fucking awesome.

But I ask you, is a disclaimer in my about page enough? Should I just yank all of this down and erase the regular me from the internet and strictly maintain the digital work me? How can I balance the two, when they so often bleed into each other?

I’m a rockstar at this blogging thing, I know. You don’t have to tell me how great I am at posting every day, and you definitely don’t have to tell me that I post way too much.

Ahem.

These last few weeks have been insane! I wish that I could remember everything but, sadly, my brain is wiped clean. I have enough trouble talking and putting words together into coherent sentences, never mind trying to remember everything that’s been going on. I now know how Ozzy feels.

I’m not even sure where to begin, as I can’t remember what I last wrote about and am way too lazy to actually go hunting through the two or so posts I’ve written in the last couple of months, so let’s just cut to the chase: car (Lisa Mazda) is dead, all I’ve been doing is working, my story “Anonymiss” won second place in this year’s Fresh Ink contest over at Naugatuck Valley, and I can meow.

The 2009 Writers’ Conference was Wednesday, and the guest speaker was Everett Hoagland, a poet from Massachusetts. His poems were really, really good. I literally fell into a sort of trance as I listened to him read. They were filled with a rhythm that I swear only African-American poets have. Even this guy’s presence was amazing; he was just so composed and peaceful.

I read my winning story from last year’s Fresh Ink, “Moon Prayer,” just before the awards for this year’s contest were presented, and after I read Everett pulled me aside and asked me how long I’ve been writing. I told him since about third grade, and remembered the story about dalmatians I wrote with my classmate Sherry-Lee. (I don’t remember what that story was about, only that it was about dalmatians and that we wrote and illustrated it on darker fuchsia construction paper.)

“I can tell you take this seriously,” he told me. “For you to write such detail, to know so much about someone who is so different from you, is amazing.”

I could barely speak, I was so astonished that this amazing man loved my story.

“You are already an accomplished writer. We’re going to be hearing about you,” he said. He said that to me several times throughout the day.

I don’t think I’m a bad writer. I mean, I know I’ve got a little talent, I guess. Several teachers, family, friends, and Professor Harding have told me over and over that I have talent. I guess I always just thought they were biased, because most of these people really liked me to begin with. For this guy, someone who did not know me at all, to hear one story and say those amazing things to me… Well, it meant a lot. He was so, so inspiring.

I felt really good about the whole day, actually. I got to connect with a lot of people I haven’t seen in a while, and Professor Harding and I went over a little of The Cure Program. To make things even better, Mike spent the whole day with me because I don’t have a car and had no other way of getting there. He said he had a lot of fun, and I really enjoyed having him there. We had a blast during the writers’ workshop that Professor Harding did.

As strange as it sounds, I really miss NVCC. I’ve never missed an old school before. I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere. But I truly did fit in at that community college, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel that “snug” anywhere else. I think that’s as good as it gets for me.

I had a lot more I wanted to write about, but I want to get to bed. Maybe I’ll update again before July. (;

Almost forgot that I promised pics. Got my toes done, but need to get them done again now.

I look so freaking tired here. I got my hair cut last weekend, and dyed again, thanks to my cousin Alicia.

Me and the kitty, with creepy glowy eyes.

When I turned on my laptop, I promised myself I wouldn’t check my email or do any blogging. But I couldn’t ignore the siren call, so here I am.

And I promise I will write a REAL update soon. For now, you get bullets!

• Life sucks. I know this. I’ve embraced it. Whatever!
• I have officially given up on sleep. I stopped responding to caffeine about three weeks ago. Whatever.
• Yesterday I ran a booth and mingled with my city’s business people. You may have seen me twittering about it. I’ll probably add links here later, if not… whatever!
• Today I attended my community college’s Writers’ Conference. I won 2nd place for this year’s prose contest and read my 1st place winning piece from last year’s contest. I’ll probably post both pieces here later. If not… (Psst: You’re supposed to say it with me!)
• I bought Sims 2 for the PC because I am addicted and have no life aside from web design. I need this. Trust me.
• I got my hair cut, and have lots of pictures. I’m just too lazy to upload them. Tomorrow, perhaps.

I will probably not write said real post tomorrow. We’ll see what happens, I guess. The important thing here, people, is that I am alive. Sort of. Blargh. See how my eyeballs pop out and roll away? I have achieved zombiehood!

Mike and I went to Stop & Shop for something — hell if I remember what — the other day. On our way through the store, we passed several tables of Easter clearance. When I first saw this little guy, I was so tired that it cracked me up. It was love at first moo.

Look at those fat, blocky cheeks! Look at those little black eyes! Yes, those are my Hello Kitty jammies, and no, I don’t care if they make me look like a five-year-old!

And yes, I sleep with stuffed animals. Jealous?

So today was an interesting day, to say the least. It started off with me waking up at 10:45 and realizing that my alarm had never gone off. (I was supposed to be in work for 9.) I looked at my phone and it wouldn’t do anything. I tried to turn it on (because I thought it might have shut off, thought that maybe the battery had magically died), but nothing happened. The odd thing was, the phone had had a good enough charge when I’d gone to bed. The even odder thing was, I had dreamed about something weird going on with my phone’s battery. I dreamed that the battery charged instantly when I plugged it in, rather than taking an hour or so. CREEPY.

I love music, because you can express anything in it. The new Blue October album fucking rocks! “The End” pretty much describes how I felt when a guy I once thought I loved cheated on me.

Anyway. ADHD, anyone?

I got dressed in seconds — amazing for me, I promise you! — and ran downstairs. I asked my dad if he was having any problems with his phone. In my half-awake state, I thought we were under electronic attack, ha ha ha! Dad tried plugging my phone in to see if it just needed to be charged, but when he plugged it in all we got was a giant battery on the screen with a lightening bolt through it.

Mean, mean battery.

I went to work, Dad brought my phone back to Best Buy, and then he met me after work to give me my babyBlackBerry and the brand new battery. After my second job and dinner, I went to Toys R Us and bought a Timex alarm clock. My old alarm clock stopped letting me set the alarm a couple of weeks ago, so I’d been using my phone instead of forking over the cash for a new alarm clock.

I guess that’s what I get.

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.

Today I ate my lunch with a plastic spoon and knife, since we ran out of forks in the cafeteria at work:

It’s a lot harder than you’d think.

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?

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.

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