tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-761090777723927722024-02-20T20:52:51.539-08:00semisweetsaramusings and mischiefsara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-33598651789916395272010-08-17T10:25:00.000-07:002010-08-17T10:25:50.555-07:00A Friday the 13th Tale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdmF0DRAqXrWXu31cMa9EfrQrjKXOXpiNtQwlDG31u1pwvjxnCi7BOLB7E87-MIlgPEcDronUquGlzSACDkG9YRH_sIO7qQPK7LzaIY-SnvphynvOpTYFp_JX7IJ8JAOoOVbzK_BVs5Q/s1600/2838861852_efa95e84dc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdmF0DRAqXrWXu31cMa9EfrQrjKXOXpiNtQwlDG31u1pwvjxnCi7BOLB7E87-MIlgPEcDronUquGlzSACDkG9YRH_sIO7qQPK7LzaIY-SnvphynvOpTYFp_JX7IJ8JAOoOVbzK_BVs5Q/s320/2838861852_efa95e84dc.jpg" /></a></div>It was a typical day, it just happened to be Friday the Thirteenth. I had just moved back to campus to start training for my job as a night desk worker at the dorms. The thought of a new year and new opportunities energized me; everything was going to go so well this year for me. I was excited to be back on campus, and to start working and making money, being the poor college student that I am. <br />
<br />
That day the dorm staff met in the lobby at 10 AM to discuss basic protocol and safety regulations. My hall director discussed what to do on the job and how to handle emergency situations, like in the case of a fire in the building or a shooter on campus. I listened intently, but thought to myself “that’s never going to happen to me”, like we all do when we hear about crazy situations. I just knew that work would be normal and uneventful, and I was glad about it.<br />
<br />
The meeting ended, and the crew dispersed. I lived in a room on the fourth floor, in a building that annoyingly did not have air conditioning. Living on the fourth floor, in the farthest room from the front, it was quite an extraordinary effort to climb up seventy-two steps of stairs just to get something out of my room. So like the lazy person that I was, I thought it was a perfectly logical idea to take the convenient elevator. Even though the building was a million years old (well, more like forty, but who’s counting?) I still had confidence in the elevator, despite the fact that it was slow and slightly rickety. So I pushed the up arrow and as the doors opened I walked across the landing and stepped inside into the small metal chamber, paint chipping off the walls and a “secret” camera in the corner following my every move. <br />
<br />
As the doors closed I prepared to be safely taken up to my floor. And then I hear the sirens. The fire alarm started screaming its banshee call all around me. The sound seemed to penetrate the air with its deafening howl. Instantly the already small five by five foot space became the size of a shoe box, a shoe box that was soon going to be filled with smoke. Panic poured over my body, like a giant bucket of ice cold water, and I was paralyzed by the icy sensation. One thought consumed my brain. There was a fire in the building and I was stuck in the elevator, the worst place to be. Like an animal in a cage, waiting for the outside predator to eventually find it and pounce. I was trapped. <br />
<br />
After what seemed to be an eternity of fear and claustrophobia, I remembered there were emergency buttons staring me right in the face. The “FIRE DEPT” and “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY” buttons that your mother tells you never to press when you’re a child, but you always secretly want to push just to see what will happen. I realized that NOW was the time to press those forbidden buttons. And so I frantically punched the buttons with all the force I had in me. I had no idea if the elevator was continuing its journey skyward or whether it had stopped altogether. I figured I might as well try pressing the “open door” button, hoping with all I had that it would open and let me free. Spastically, I pressed and pressed. And then miraculously, my guardian angel pried open the thick metal doors and the vacant second floor hall appeared in my sight. Sheer relief at not being confined in my shoebox prison spread throughout my body, until I realized I was still not home free. I shot out of the elevator, a bullet in a loaded gun, and zipped down the two flights of stairs, across the lobby, and out of the door. I could see the rest of the dorm inhabitants in the courtyard a few yards ahead, and in a few seconds I was safe at home plate. <br />
<br />
No one knew what had caused the fire. There were about twenty of us, so the likelihood that someone had forgotten about their popcorn in the microwave was very small. And it was too soon to have a fire drill, so there was something else going on here. We waited five minutes, and then the sirens of the fire trucks alerted us that help was here. After fifteen minutes, the fire fighters came out of the building and alerted us as to the cause of the fire. It had so happened that the elevator had finally thrown in the towel after so many years, and a fire had started in the shaft. As I heard this, the feeling of panic and fear began to burn in my chest. I had unintentionally started the fire, because I had been lazy. Of course, it was bound to happen eventually, but MURPHY’s LAW, I was the one who brought the trouble on. <br />
<br />
Later on, when I realized exactly what day it was, I had to laugh. And then I remembered that around midnight the night before, I had seen a black cat sprawling out on the grass as I had walked nearby. I had not been superstitious at the time, but I now felt a chill run down my spine. What a cliché. This was just too, too much.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-18270347712663524012010-07-20T12:21:00.000-07:002010-07-20T12:29:01.324-07:00i'm unique just like everyone else<object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/ny6SBzsSFJI/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ny6SBzsSFJI&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ny6SBzsSFJI&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br /><br /><p>A clip from the film "Garden State". It perfectly describes myself and my peers in our wish to be a unique individual. I think sometimes we strive too hard to be nonconformists, that we ironically begin to conform to that idea. Here's a message kids: just be yourself. Like what you like, do what you want to do (as long as it doesn't break the law and your personal moral/ethical code), love who you want to love, and be happy with yourself. It's a simple thought, and easier said than done. It comes down to this, you're the only you that you're every going to be, so make the very best of it.</p>sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-40125168994582202782010-07-19T12:14:00.000-07:002010-07-20T08:08:03.693-07:00M.I.A. : /\/\ /\ Y /\ (MAYA)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmuLugs9p_MrjGGW-TWlOcwQ02zoBoHmLl59MWaxkXun938KfeEOC2GJplJWsiUXVdDvXegJX9d78IQ5c8shwqofuEPFk13tgsaX31THU0JotyAmjdK2CNcBvZpSXjuB8nfNFtUdMoyk/s1600/61Fe1Quf2lL._SL160_%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 160px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 160px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495699815591593842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmuLugs9p_MrjGGW-TWlOcwQ02zoBoHmLl59MWaxkXun938KfeEOC2GJplJWsiUXVdDvXegJX9d78IQ5c8shwqofuEPFk13tgsaX31THU0JotyAmjdK2CNcBvZpSXjuB8nfNFtUdMoyk/s400/61Fe1Quf2lL._SL160_%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a> She may not be flying like paper or getting high like planes anymore, but M.I.A. is still quite fly. Her highly-anticipated new album, /\/\ /\ Y /\ (MAYA), follows after the huge success of her 2007 album "Kala". M.I.A. busted into pop culture with the hit "Paper Planes", which was featured in both "Pineapple Express" and the Academy-Award winning "Slumdog Millionaire". This song had a significant impact on pop music. All of a sudden the sound of gunshots and cash-registers, not exactly radio-friendly, came flooding out of car stereos everywhere. In my memory, it was arguably the most popular song of the summer in 2008. I never thought, when i bought "Kala" back in 2007, that the big hit would have been this particular track. Even those who didn't like the unconventional sound of her music started to pump it through their speakers. In other words, M.I.A. grew on the mainstream.<br /><br />Her new album,"MAYA", is a bit of a surprise to me. I expected M.I.A. to create an album that was even more radical and rebellious, and often abrasive, than her previous work. M.I.A. is known for the political and social statements she sends through her blend of rap, electronic, and sometimes reggae beats. Don't be mistaken, this album still speaks to the activist artist that she is, but it is also quite...pop at the same time. While tracks (and videos) like "Born Free" ooze with a defiant, rebellious attitude, making it somewhat of an anthem of youth and independence, other tracks like "XXXO" and "Teqkilla" are radio-ready and most likely already hot requests at trendy dance clubs. But as fun and free-spirited as the album is, the theme of the album seems to be the Internet and the way everything is connected through it, and the belief that the government uses this social networking as a "Big Brother" of sorts to track unsuspecting users (the album opens with the lyrics "connected to the google/connected to the government"). In this Facebook and Twitter age, M.I.A. is sending a message that we can have fun and dance to the beat, but we have to be careful about what we do because you never know who may be watching, or Googling, you.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-86366351601930385562010-07-17T23:02:00.000-07:002010-07-18T10:54:57.344-07:00Cleanse: Day 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhol_WZZrNNojZv0rUQHDQHeLNxd_pRSepSJJxDr8xHWDz01mxLBjKl1oEJmtPLZZ8Y06fwDZPHH9OgD_A69hsZEd6y0hQmpKdik-cdVOvxpk5aGf0Q3bha6AJUqi5mjF5XrmKv7yh8Lrg/s1600/purple+buddha.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhol_WZZrNNojZv0rUQHDQHeLNxd_pRSepSJJxDr8xHWDz01mxLBjKl1oEJmtPLZZ8Y06fwDZPHH9OgD_A69hsZEd6y0hQmpKdik-cdVOvxpk5aGf0Q3bha6AJUqi5mjF5XrmKv7yh8Lrg/s200/purple+buddha.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495306120705306210" /></a><br />So it's the first day of my cleanse. Don't be mistaken, this isn't a psycho-celeb "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Master_Cleanse">Master Cleanse</a>" type of cleanse, I'm not <em>that </em>crazy. This is more like a lifestyle adjustment. I'm taking these all-natural supplements for two weeks to gently cleanse my body of the toxins from processed food and the environment that accumulate in the body after awhile. In addition I'm going to do my best to eat as "clean" as possible, limiting simple sugars and...here's the hard part...cutting out my beloved Coke Zero. During my first year of college, sleep became replaced by these fizzy aluminum soda cans that contained my life source. And I've always had an obnoxiously ravenous sweet tooth, I might as well have been an extra kid with a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Don't get me wrong, I will never say goodbye completely to my vices, but for now I'm challenging myself to get back to basics. My goal is to not be dependent on caffeine and sugar for energy by the end of the summer. It's only been a few hours, so the insanity has not yet set in. I wonder how long it will be before I'm pulling out my hair from the inevitable headaches...I wonder if they have a rehab for caffeine addicts?sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-54418576708553989222010-07-17T22:01:00.000-07:002010-07-17T22:06:58.049-07:00disturbing memories of childhood<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76yIjOaD10HjuibuXC6ZlNNAHR0yvK-FbX3p_2dXl6om3eSCJ2s6hL8BD4Z2efasjUBAgNU7j-LL4-nY7ipU1CglRRGZCXwUOvXchmuD3GVdRMv0Dhx_6ot-YXBv00oGKvQWOIyV8tlQ/s1600/SUC50873%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 118px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495108094829553186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76yIjOaD10HjuibuXC6ZlNNAHR0yvK-FbX3p_2dXl6om3eSCJ2s6hL8BD4Z2efasjUBAgNU7j-LL4-nY7ipU1CglRRGZCXwUOvXchmuD3GVdRMv0Dhx_6ot-YXBv00oGKvQWOIyV8tlQ/s400/SUC50873%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br />when i was a youngin', i used to play a game of barbies with my mom. she was always "cowgirl barbie" and i was always "sun sensation" barbie...but because i was young and couldn't pronounce words correctly, i instead said "sensual barbie". maybe that's where my problems begansara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-77131918289321861532010-07-14T07:15:00.000-07:002010-07-14T08:36:23.794-07:00Mexico on my mind: Mangoes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEOiK8ZXwqVk-U5iCrl5Ac156Ep8p3nQn1nT_YX-zW2RBxDq8qvVj1vjiMwdND6p1oBm5dRKIy7X4HA2euJRqe-Rua0t5f3i6RMxHHwU3OdHFF7VH4OR5nXuYUPEMwKsPUose-aDJFxs/s1600/mangoes1%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 182px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493786190908402626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEOiK8ZXwqVk-U5iCrl5Ac156Ep8p3nQn1nT_YX-zW2RBxDq8qvVj1vjiMwdND6p1oBm5dRKIy7X4HA2euJRqe-Rua0t5f3i6RMxHHwU3OdHFF7VH4OR5nXuYUPEMwKsPUose-aDJFxs/s200/mangoes1%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a> I love America. As cliche as it is, sometimes you need to get out of the country to realize that. As much as I'm obsessed with foreign cultures, it's important to love your country, it's home. But there are definitely many things I miss from my recent journey out of the land of the free and home of the brave.<br /><br />On my recent trip to the city of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oaxaca,_Oaxaca">Oaxaca</a> in the Mexican state of Oaxaca, I got to experience the lush and vibrant culture of this relatively quiet and tranquil part of Mexico. I went there to study Spanish at the <a href="http://www.icomexico.com/?_kk=instituto%20cultural%20oaxaca&_kt=a4701969-bef0-45c0-9686-41eb473fd90f&gclid=CJPK5NSq66ICFY1N2godaV-Abg">Instituto Cultural Oaxaca</a>, hoping to improve my speaking ability. I lived with a lovely host family who treated me like one of the family, showing alot of love and care. One of my favorite memories is sitting around the kitchen table and eating breakfast, and oh how I miss that Mexican breakfast. Every morning Soledad, the matriarch of the family, would prepare for me a lush platter of cut-up fruits (carefully prepared with the skins removed, to avoid contamination from the unfiltered water). This scrumptious plate typically included apples, cantaloupe, banana, papaya, and the most important ingredient, mango.<br /><br />Before Mexico, I had never had a real mango. These fruits, with their bright golden flesh, tasted like no other fruit I had ever tasted. For me, these mangoes were an escapist experience. When I took a bite, I would close my eyes and be transformed into a khaki-clad adventurer, sifting through the tropical jungles of South America, searching for an oasis in the oppressive heat and humidity. I would find the mythical tree of mangoes, and that first bite would be my salvation. The golden juice would cover my sandpaper tongue, and I would forget about the scorching heat of the sun and the sting of mosquitoes. For a moment, the mango was the only sensation that registered, and it was a much welcomed relief.<br /><br />I miss these mango reveries. There are only a few foods that I have tasted that provide the magical ability to escape into another place. On returning to the United States, I tried my luck at the mangoes at the supermarket, and my heart sank as I realized that these mangoes were not the same magic mangoes I had tasted in Oaxaca. I know someday I will return to South America and have another magic mango, and escape once more into my romanticized adventures.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-91964211927499117222010-07-13T08:35:00.000-07:002010-07-13T13:52:06.372-07:00There are two types of people in this world...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEs7_LFJdNc-xwbZKViHLoTpOFcxgnumQtQpFkj5JO95BY4aP3G_xrvrSW5uXwcNArSDZlbX3LnWws1RmQS779pXtfQ43p1h7ubFOTu6Knahoo0vr3BnldgToes-nE18wQTieBNR_3Qr0/s1600/OuttaMustard%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 290px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493489041540678786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEs7_LFJdNc-xwbZKViHLoTpOFcxgnumQtQpFkj5JO95BY4aP3G_xrvrSW5uXwcNArSDZlbX3LnWws1RmQS779pXtfQ43p1h7ubFOTu6Knahoo0vr3BnldgToes-nE18wQTieBNR_3Qr0/s400/OuttaMustard%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a> Person A: The person who eats food either plain or with the occasional condiment.<br /><br />Person B: The person who eats EVERY (or almost every) item of food with some condiment or another. It could be one condiment in particular that said person is particular to, or it could be a few. The point is, this eater must ALWAYS have a condiment available on a need basis.<br /><br />Mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, salt, pepper...there are so many condiments that are quintessential to the All-American diet. We slather them on sandwiches, hot dogs, hamburgers, fries, you-name-it. And while most of us use these "food accessories", if you will, in moderation, there are some of us out there who just can't get enough of that stuff that they love. I am here confessing that I am a condiment addict. <br /><br />When I was a child, my mother would pick me up from my school in Rochester, Minnesota to find yellow stains on my clothes. Thankfully, this was not due to a urinary problem (I would have had a much more difficult time socially if that were the case) but because of a condiment problem. Every day in the cafeteria, I would not squirt, not drizzle, but slather mustard on almost every gray-tinged food item that was on my industrial-grade food tray. It seemed like there was no wholesale-bought flavor that couldn't be improved by a generous glob of that bright, golden sauce that tasted like raindrops from the sun. Occasionally it would be accompanied by it's good friend Ketchup, and on the special occasion mixed together into an orange concoction I fondly called <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mustup</span>, much like many of the other curious or bored children at the lunch table. But I was first and foremost always loyal to my yellow friend. Eventually I became more careful aiming the bottle, saving myself more unsightly stains for my mother to try and scrub out. Yet my love for mustard has not waned, yet it has matured. Today I am a mustard <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">connoisseur</span> who enjoys the wide varieties that the mustard seed lends itself too, from spicy to Dijon to stone-ground to honey mustard dressing. So I guess I will always be a condiment person, and that's a mark that I don't want to come out in the wash.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-46431032848577918722010-07-12T13:28:00.001-07:002010-07-12T13:34:11.987-07:00Google Fun: Green Tea Kit-Kat?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7ROLJs3b-Cud8DmTqaIyNGRaRVWmvDmxBu9iV9t8OBoxY9ZxAMKIWfXB6Fm_gADa6iXV-KxZsIHNCB1oO_crf3wXt-Oc68AkuVwb-RaBGPErirTTHObd02jQL3-nI1Y_qa43S_SzxFQ/s1600/kit%2520kat%2520green%2520tea%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493120001642111314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN7ROLJs3b-Cud8DmTqaIyNGRaRVWmvDmxBu9iV9t8OBoxY9ZxAMKIWfXB6Fm_gADa6iXV-KxZsIHNCB1oO_crf3wXt-Oc68AkuVwb-RaBGPErirTTHObd02jQL3-nI1Y_qa43S_SzxFQ/s320/kit%2520kat%2520green%2520tea%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br />Those Japanese sure know how to fit antioxidants into their candy in creative ways. I like my Kit Kat the old fashioned, milk chocolate-y way, and I'll drink my Green Tea in its hot, liquidy form. You'll never see this at Walgreens.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-27951976585037536582010-01-10T21:23:00.000-08:002010-01-10T21:50:33.916-08:00College Life: Reflections Before Second SemesterTomorrow I'm about to head back to the University of Kentucky for my second semester as a college freshman. Bear with me while I take a moment to reflect over this new phase and prepare for the few months ahead.<br /><br />There is something bittersweet about the second semester. I'm no longer the innocent, wide-eyed, fresh out of Catholic School-girl that I was in September when I first stepped foot on campus. I love and hate the feeling of being the new kid. I've moved around to many schools in my life, across the span of just two states, Kentucky and Minnesota, and so I've grown accustomed to change and new atmospheres. In fact, I crave it. I love a new schedule, a new routine, and new faces. And of course, who can forget the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">opportunity</span> to create a new self, to be someone you have always wanted to be, to start fresh.<br /><br />So now that I'm in my second semester, I can no longer pull a naive excuse. I know the ropes, and I'm expected to ease back into my classes as a fully-fledged college student. It is true that I do feel much more <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">equipped</span> to tackle the stress of a full class schedule. I've had my moments of procrastination, and I'm sure I will have many more, but the lure of all the excessive socializing has worn off for me. I often felt unable to say "no" my first semester, which led to many caffeine-fueled nights finishing a paper at three-o'clock in the morning. My goal is to have, hopefully, only one or two of those this semester.<br /><br />Emotionally, I had a yo-yo of a semester. I had many good times, meeting new people and enjoying life as an independent student away from home for the first time. Yet I felt that I had an equal number of times when I was down, whether it was a personal issue I was going through or an external problem with someone. It would be a lie to say that I have completely moved on from these issues. In fact, during the winter break I pondered these thoughts in an excessive, almost self-indulgent, manner. My hope is that once classes begin again I will settle into a new routine and banish the old demons that still continue to drag me down, trying with all their might to keep me from my goals and from my dreams.<br /><br />And so, even if I have to make myself be positive and optimistic, I want to encourage myself and others to have an excellent spring semester. And if you are feeling the same way as I feel, I have a piece of advice for you. Don't ignore your weaknesses, don't pretend they don't exist. If you acknowledge them, then you are better able to battle them and to understand yourself better in the process. I'm going to do the best I can, from this point on, to live today better than yesterday, and to live tomorrow better than today.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-15350568252838125822010-01-07T11:02:00.000-08:002010-01-07T11:24:14.363-08:00Funny New Year's Resolution #1: Become A Femme FataleShe's dangerous. She's sexy. She wears patent leather...and not just on her shoes. She steals the scene in every badass Tarantino flick, you don't know whether to hit her or to kiss her. She's a femme fatale.<br /><br />Me on the other hand, I'm the nice girl. I gravitate more towards the cute end of the spectrum of labels, and that's okay with me. I like being slightly naive and embrace my innocence. A petite, five foot two and a half-inch brunette with brown eyes and an irish nose. <br /><br />So this year I want to work on nurturing my dark side. It won't be through a drastic haircut or color, I'm afraid with my coloring I would look like Samara from "The Ring" or Wednesday Adams from "The Adams Family". <br /><br />No, it will be much more clever than that. The turn of the head, the bat of the eye, the click of a spiky-heel. Somehow I will nurture my inner femme fatale. And she shall be called...Natasha.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-18549882560777468842009-12-19T17:18:00.001-08:002009-12-19T17:18:41.316-08:00Seeing The World Through Rose-Colored GlassesBefore starting my freshman year at the University of Kentucky, I had never put too much thought into my own personal safety. Sure, I looked both ways when I crossed the road. I never stayed out too late or went anywhere by myself. Needless to say, my high school life was pretty boring and uneventful, but that was a good thing. <br /><br />I remember coming to school on that first day of move-in, fresh-faced and ready to begin my life as a young college freshman brimming with dreams and ambitions. A new stage, a fresh start. I couldn’t have been more excited. <br /><br />I was focused on getting adjusted to a new class schedule, making new friends, establishing connections, getting comfortable with life on my own. I could, within reason, do whatever I wanted, become whoever I wanted. I relished the diversity I found on campus, types of people I had never encountered in my previous life as a sheltered Catholic School girl, cliché I know. I embraced these new and interesting people, and for the most part, they have embraced me back. <br /><br />Generally speaking, it is a positive character attribute to believe the best in people. I am a generally optimistic person with a sweet-natured disposition, which can often times be presumed as naïveté. I think of myself as a perceptive person, but this youthful innocence is still with me today. <br /><br />So, of course, being so “innocent” and all, I’m a primary RED DOT target. Thankfully, I do not have a horror story to tell you here. But I’ve had my fair share of close-calls. The problem with me is that, by giving others the benefit of the doubt, I squelch the little voice of intuition inside me that says “Hold up, there’s something wrong here”. When you’re having fun, you want to just ignore that nagging little voice, make it shut up so you can continue having a good time. Unfortunately, this is how most girls like me find themselves. We don’t go out looking for trouble, but trouble is attracted to us. By giving out an image of friendliness and open-mindedness, we put ourselves in a perfect position to the meet the right kinds of friends, but once in awhile the wrong ones will slip through the cracks. <br /><br />Perhaps I see the world through rose-colored glasses. This is both figurative and literal, because in fact, I do own not one but several heart-shaped, rose-colored glasses. I enjoy the way I see the world and the way I see people. I do not want, at the tender age of eighteen, to be cynical of others or hesitant towards experiencing life. I know people like this, and it saddens me to see them live in fear and uncertainty. My optimism is my armor against a world where I know that evil exists. <br /><br />So I will continue on this road, wearing my rose-colored glasses, yet with the full awareness that things are not always as rosy as they may seem.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-26561720349786937232009-11-22T06:16:00.000-08:002009-11-22T06:17:21.731-08:00just browsing the blogswell <a href="http://iamneurotic.com/2008/11/04/how-do-women-cope-with-their-neuroses/">this</a> explains alotsara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-39783761918870346922009-11-18T13:12:00.000-08:002009-11-18T22:26:19.476-08:00the media and me: a reflection on beauty as perceived by a magazine-maniacIn my COM 101 class today we discussed the topic of Sex in Advertising and Mass Media. We learned some of the tools that the advertising industry uses to sell their products and the conscious, and more disturbingly, the unconscious effect it has on us, especially on women and young girls. This topic affects me, being both a female and one interested in entering this fascinating yet dangerous field, and I'm struggling with my view on it. <br /><br />I'm not a feminist. Let's just put that out there. But I'm not a bimbo either. I like to look nice for myself most of the time but also for others occasionally. I don't wear low-cut tops but I do wear short shorts and skirts. I work with what I got but in the most tasteful way that I know possible. <br /><br />For some time now I have been wanting to work in the fashion biz. I have an obsessive guilty-pleasure for fashion mags, particularly NYLON magazine, which to me epitomizes the well-rounded indie kid, if such a thing exists. I'd like to say it's the creativity one can use in designing and constructing the images and layouts that fascinates and enthralls me, but of course that is just one aspect that draws me in.<br /><br />I believe I see fashion magazines, and therefore the fashion marketing and advertising business, for what they are. They are trying to sell you their product by selling you an image. I sound like a broken record but what's true is true. For example, I'm not going to buy a pair of jeans unless they make me look good. How am I persuaded of this? Through an ad with a model who shows off those jeans to their full potential. On paper it seems point-blank, we want to have the glittery, glamorous life and if it means we have to have that pair of jeans to get it, well that's just an easy route to cool. <br /><br />I'm not saying I'm not affected by these images, I am quite deeply impacted by the media. Since I was around the age of twelve I have been very attuned to the way females were projected on TV, at the movies, and in my magazines. As a young girl I saw other women on a parallel level to my own sexual development, an alternate universe of a shared experience. This awareness of your own sexuality is a right of passage, it's inevitable and important in maturing and developing into an adult. And even though it can be exciting, it is a major adjustment that often extends the time of puberty even into early adulthood.<br /><br />I never wanted to be the blond bimbo, but just because I didn't want to look exactly like my copious collection of Barbie dolls did not mean that I didn't want to somewhat resemble that unattainable image of beauty. <br /><br />There are several physical standards that I believe every average American woman, at some point, aspires to obtain or maintain. Thin figure, symmetrical face, proportional body, clear complexion, white smile, lustrous hair, and last but not least sparkling eyes that seem to penetrate the soul with a single glance. Well-dressed and friendly, approachable and dynamic, accepted and desired. I wanted, and still want, to be beautiful, a vision of health and vitality. <br /><br />I sometimes think of myself, in an oxymoronic way, as a deeply superficial person. I go into phases where shopping is like eating, and I obsess over every detail of my look or my appearance. This is when my self-esteem is at it's lowest, and there is an insecurity that occurs that can almost be described as paranoia. Of course this is not always the case, but I'm sure that every girl has felt this heightened anxiety attached purely to her physical appearance. <br /><br />What I've learned through the years since adolescence is that those physical qualities, that is what I've come to define as "pretty". Beauty is something entirely different. There is an X factor in beauty that is hard to place and to label. Regardless of our level of attractiveness, I believe we all have that "ingredient" in us that makes us beautiful. Sort of like Emeril's "BAM!". Alot of the time it is hard to pinpoint this in yourself, sometimes it takes others to enlighten us on our own beauty. I believe my beauty is in my creativity, or my ability to be emotionally descriptive, whether it be through my talent with visual art or with words. Come to think of it, I've made it a hobby of investigating my family, my friends, and other people I've encountered to find out what their beauty is. <br /><br />I believe this idea of beauty is what will sustain me through the years as I (yikes) begin to age. And believe me, in this culture so focused on youth I am freaked out. I dread the day that I wake up and find that first gray hair or that line that wasn't there the night before. The irony is that this stress about aging is probably aging me. So perhaps peace is best. <br /><br />Peace. So simple in theory yet so complex when it comes to being truly comfortable with yourself. The fact of the matter is that I never will be truly and completely comfortable with myself. Some women, I believe, can achieve this. They understand themselves and their identity without the need of the external world's approval. I unfortunately am not one of them. I oscillate back and forth between the feeling of self-acceptance and the need to improve myself. The best I can do, and what any girl who feels the way I do, is to reinforce myself and remind myself of my ingredient, and hopefully remember the beauty beyond the "pretty" surface.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-80157711538084798322009-11-16T11:46:00.000-08:002009-11-18T13:08:11.491-08:00maintaining ackwardly long periods of eye contactWe have acceptable periods of time with which we can maintain eye contact. This usually lasts two, three seconds tops. Any longer than that and it just gets creepy. But don't make a judgement too fast, first take a couple factors into concideration. <br /><br />Eye contact is a funny thing. Some people make eye contact often, some avert their eyes and avoid it at all costs. It's the difference between a sweet Southern grandma on a porch sippin' her lemonade saying hey to all the neighbors and a corporate businessman concentrating on his sudoku on a New York City subway. It's not necessarily a question of friendliness but more so a culturally learned behavior. <br /><br />Back to the concern about the ackward length of time. The problem is the two people keep staring at each other waiting for the other person to look away, but no one will because they don't want to seem rude. <br /><br />There is always the possibility that the eye contact is prolonged for a meaningful purpose, as if the person is trying to deliver a nonverbal message of critical importance. <br /><br />So if it is not based on regional behaviors, manners are not at play, and there is no reason to maintain eye contact, then we can confiedently say that there is some creepin' going on.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-22132700025151484282009-11-14T05:41:00.000-08:002009-11-20T08:49:27.261-08:00Urban DictionaryI love words.<br /><br />I specifically love big words. Words that you say and your friends look at you like "OK, why don't you just carry around a dictionary with you so other people can understand what the heck you are saying" (note: I used the word "heck instead of hell", you'll understand in a minute).<br /><br />Despite the fact that I know many big, pretentious words (thanks to my seventh-grade English teacher and his 500 words vocabulary list), I, being the innocent ex-catholic school girl that I am, am less familiar with more modern slang. Yes, every once in awhile a cuss word will slip from my tongue, but the majority of the time I stick to boring, fairly mundane words.<br /><br />This is where <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/">Urban Dictionary</a> comes in handy. It's like Webster for immature college students. You can read and add words to it, and learn a lingo that might just make you cooler, or seem more like a jerk than you already might be. I used to be shocked by the obnoxiousness of the majority of the words, but read enough of them and it's like reading a Doctor Seuss novel that you've read so many times before, you become used to it and the bizarreness of the words are lost on you.<br /><br />I even tried to make up my own word, "adorkable". I would defined it as this:<br /><br />adorkable: (adj.) One who embodies both the qualities of being adorable and dorky.<br />Ex: Clark Kent, with his black-rimmed glasses and buff bod, is the ultimate model of the "adorkable" male.<br /><br />Alas, I looked up this word on the site and it was already listed! I had never heard it used before and I was foolish enough to think that I could be creative enough to think of it first. I eventually got over this and moved on. But it remains on my bucket list to create an epic word or phrase to add to the multitude of slang.<br /><br />Let's just say Urban Dictionary gave me an education that was lost by not going to real-world school, you know, the type that mix genders, people get away with smoking in the bathroom, and the regular fist fight or bitch slap. I may have missed out on the lingo that went along with this exotic world, but I'm making up for lost time thanks to the wonders of the internet.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76109077772392772.post-13228647697769802112009-05-25T09:16:00.000-07:002009-05-25T09:18:49.118-07:00Eulogy for a Catholic School UniformWe gather here today to mourn the loss of a Catholic School Uniform. After the graduation of the senior-year high school student, Uniform was laid to rest at the bottom of the closet, buried under the sediment, and by that I mean cast-off handbags and shoes. Here we remember you, so that we may forever lay to rest unpleasant fashion memories.<br /><br />Over-the-Ankle Socks: You covered our scandalous ankles from prying eyes. You were a very discrete, chunky band of white that streamlined the look of those good ol' Sperrys. As you know, there is nothing more obscene than a naked ankle, you might as well be posing for Playboy. Thank you for protecting our modesty.<br /><br />White Polo: The under-layer of this fashion team, you are the un-sung hero of this look. By pulling out the white collar over our sweater or sweatshirt, you granted us instant cool. Why pop your collar when you can pull it out from underneath your sweater, like a classy dame? Oh, and we must not forget to tuck you under our skirts, an un-tucked edge peeking out under a sweatshirt is an obstacle to success!<br /><br />Gray Senior Sweatshirt: Ah, the Sacred Senior Sweatshirt. We wait for you for three years in our acrylic navy sweater, only to be disappointed by your unflattering puffy shape. You did nothing for our figures, but I can say we were the most fashionable gray clouds in the atmosphere.<br /><br />Navy Blue Skirt: How could we forget you, Navy Blue Skirt? Your polyester-goodness was the cornerstone of the classic Catholic School-Girl uniform. So we never wore you at the correct length, so we rolled and unzipped your uncomfortable waistband, so we occasionally doctored you up with safety pins, duct tape, and even staples. You stuck with us...Monday through Friday from 8am to 2:45 pm. We will always remember our fond love-hate relationship (with less of the former), and vow never to wear navy again.<br /><br />We will forever remember you, dear Uniform, but we think it best that you not haunt our style from the grave.sara nellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03691700567095086408noreply@blogger.com0