“Smiling, Smiling” Over Sweet Brown, Awards, and Essays

I graduate next week. I graduate next week. I graduate NEXT WEEK.
Don’t mind me, guys. I’m just testing out the theory that if I say that enough, it might seem real.
I’m sitting here in the library, and I’m supposed to  be working on my paper so I can send a longer version to my professor. Sorry if you’re reading this and disappointed in me, Dr. Simpson. I’m going to send it after I write this, I promise. I’ve been in the library like four days in the past week and a half. It’s like my brain thinks that if I just go to the library, my paper is going to somehow write itself. Instead, I’m looking at hilarious Sweet Brown shirts:
sweet brown cinderella
Sweet Brown is from Oklahoma, so be jealous. That clip is from one of my local news stations.
I’m also currently being distracted because there’s a girl in a giant fur trapper hat trying to do math (currently her problem is about yogurt) on a chalkboard, and she’s talking out loud. It’s pretty funny, she sounds like she enjoys math about as much as I do (which is NOT AT ALL). It’s also apparently National Siblings Day according to Facebook, so I was also distracted finding the perfect picture to post of myself and my big sister, Rachel. It was a toss-up between these two:
rae and I balloons

rae and I little
The latter one came out the victor, if you’re interested.
But honestly, I’ve been procrastinating this paper more than is normal, even for me. I always leave stuff to the last minute, but once I start on it, I always finish it very rapidly. But this paper… ah, it’s more than just Camus  being difficult, and I know it. I think I’m scared to write it. This is my last essay assignment. Ever. And I am so upset.
Most people would be like, uh, what is wrong with you? That’s something to celebrate! Heck, most people would probably just think I’m crazy for being an English major in the first place because of the amount of writing that it entails. And I’ll admit, essays are not my favorite thing to do.
But they have been vital to the development of my very character.
I’ve always been a really good student. My mom is a teacher, so education and reading were hugely important in my family. We also are a middle class family, so we don’t have a lot of extra money. It was always stressed that I needed to make good grades in order to get a scholarship to college, and that’s something I’ve taken very seriously. However, there’s always been some things I was better at, and some things I was worse at (cough MATH cough). When I got to middle school and high school and began writing more and more essays, that is where I began to realize that maybe I had a bit of a talent with words. Writing just came so easily to me that I’d never thought about it, but when teachers began to compliment me and I consistently did well on writing tests and essays, English kind of became my thing. Now, whenever people ask me what my major is and I say English, they always reply “Oh, of course!” and laugh, as if it was silly they asked. Writing is just who I am, and essays have helped to make me that way. When I think back on the sheer volume of essays I’ve written in school, I’m amazed, but I’m also incredibly grateful. No one, myself included, likes to think that talent is really achieved by enormous amounts of practice, but it really is generally true. And as unglamorous as it sounds, I can look back and recognize that any real talent I might have had was developed by all the seemingly endless amounts of random stuff I had to write for school. And now, that has come to an end. And I’m feeling lost.
I think the reason it’s so hard for me to write this essay is because it’s that idea that if I put it off, I can ignore the truth. If I don’t write this essay, that means I’m not finishing one for the last time. I’m also not going into my last finals week, and I’m definitely not going to graduate next Friday. I also can’t possibly be about to have to find a job and start my life. Yesterday was kind of bewildering, because my school held its annual scholarly award banquet. I received three awards, all related to being a graduating senior and it was so surreal. I’ve been to this banquet before, and watched other people who were graduating receive those awards. It seemed so wrong this it was now me getting them. I’m going to be a little braggy and post some pictures from the banquet:
senior awards
graduation awards
senior awards with rae
It seems like I literally just posted my first post on this blog, slightly amazed by the fact I was in my last semester of college, but thinking I still had four months– I still had plenty of time. And now, next week I end my entire school career. I was telling my family yesterday that I can remember, with crystal clarity, sitting at my desk in my kindergarten class. At my elementary school, my kindergarten classroom was next door to my first grade classroom. I can recall perfectly looking at that door and thinking, wow, next year I’ll be through there and in FIRST GRADE. Now I’m looking at the door, but I have no idea what’s beyond it. Next Friday I’ll walk through the last doorway of my educational journey, and come out of a world of structure into one of uncertainty. Who knows where the doors will be once I’m done with school, or if they’ll be open, or if I’ll even recognize them? I’ll probably never know for sure what’s beyond them. For me, it’s like this last essay is the big potted fern I shoved in front of that last door, and I can’t stand to move it because I don’t want to look.
But the whole time I’ve been writing this, the girl in the trapper hat has been working through her math problems, steadily, doing some things right and doing some things wrong, and she just now announced, triumphantly, “I did it right! Yeeeeah!” Then she erased the board and started over again on another problem. I think I need to take a page from her book and go about life a little more like that. You tackle whatever problem comes your way, and you do some things right and some things wrong, until you figure out whatever the solution is. Then you erase the board and start again. Next Friday, I will graduate Summa Cum Laude and with an expected GPA of 4.0. I’ll walk across the stage, receive my diploma, and then I’ll shout, “I did it right!!” And then I’m going to erase the board and write down a brand new problem.
But before I can finish the current problem, I have to finish my essay. So I’ll bid you adieu for now, because Camus awaits.

Güle güle,
Sara

PS I chose Turkish tonight because someone from Turkey totally looked at my blog this week. Supposedly this phrase means, “Good bye” or, literally “Smiling, smiling.” I like that a lot.

Metaphors in Milanos

I have always known that I am a lazy, impatient person.
I never wanted to do any chores; I always would’ve much preferred to be reading or napping or playing soccer. In other words, something I was actually interested in. I am impatient especially with things I hate or find boring (ie chores). Another thing that I find myself impatient with is retelling a long story that happened a period of time previously. I hate having to lay out background or catch someone up with what’s going on, and this is because I am a very excitable person. When something happens, I want to talk about it RIGHT THEN because I’m having all the FEELS. I am that person who gestures wildly with her hands and starts talking louder and louder until someone eventually has to shush her (I was the bane of sleepovers and spending the night because I almost inevitably woke up someone’s parent and we were then made to go to sleep). When something engages me, it FULLY engages me, and I get very excited to tell someone about it.
So, whenever a new thought occurs to me that I just HAVE TO SHARE WITH EVERYONEEEE, I get very impatient when I need to explain the context first. I haven’t written on this blog in approximately two and a half weeks (a fact I find sad). Within that time, I experienced a Spring Break that I had a lot of feels over, and I did lots of interesting things. Other interesting things have happened since Spring Break, too. But, as is my unfortunate tendency, I don’t want to have to go back and talk about them right now because I’ve got something else to say. And since the lovely but highly anecdotal things I experienced aren’t really necessary to this particular post, I am going to hold off. I WILL write a post with pictures over my life lately, since the whole purpose when I started this blog was to recount and preserve the experience of my last semester of college. What I didn’t bargain for was the fact that I was going to be so wildly busy that it was going to be difficult to find the time to blog about those experiences. But tonight, I found the time. And that leads me nicely to what I want to talk about.
Milanos.
milanoMost specifically, milk chocolate Milanos. I don’t like dark chocolate, and once or twice I’ve accidentally bought the regular dark chocolate kind, and I couldn’t even eat them.
Now, I am not a junk food eater. I am a little plump, but that’s because I really love my dessert. I don’t count candy or potato chips or pop, however, as dessert. I don’t really partake of those things. I don’t even really like cookies. But Milanos…
My god. They are on another plane of existence entirely.
I don’t know if you have ever had Milanos, but if you haven’t I AM SO SORRY. Please, please, please go buy yourself some. They have lots of different types if you don’t like milk chocolate, and I’m sure they’re (almost) equally delicious. I am fairly convinced that Milanos are made with some sort of witchery (I like witchery, because it’s like a combination of witchcraft and sorcery, as are Milanos). Speaking of who makes Milanos, it’s Pepperidge Farms, which is fairly obvious if you’ve ever gazed upon Milanos. But what you may not know is that (as of 2009 when I researched it), Pepperidge Farms was owned by Campbell’s, as in the soup company. Isn’t that weird? I had to  do a research report over a multi-national corporation as a high school senior in AP Human Geography, and I chose Campbell’s. I was quite surprised to find out they owned Pepperidge Farms in the midst of my paper.
(Enter smooth segue).
Which reminds me of the reason I felt so compelled to post. Milanos. You may be saying, really? Two and a half weeks without posting, and you decide that waxing poetic over Milanos is the post you just can’t do without? And to you people I say, obviously you’ve never eaten Milanos. But, alas, you are actually correct. I didn’t post just to idolize Milanos.
milano cookiesThough let’s be real here, they totally deserve a post dedicated to their goodness. But, to my point. Yesterday, as we are wont to do in a tiny college town that boasts little in the way of amusement and even less in the way of establishments that stay open past 8pm, my roommates, my sister, and myself all went to Walmart. Now, I think I’ve made it clear how much I love Milanos, but let me restate it, just in case. I really, really, really, really love Milanos. And this is why I try not to buy them very much. Milanos are almost three dollars a bag, which doesn’t seem like much until you realize there’s only 15 cookies per bag. Now, I’m really bad at math but that seems like a lot for only 15 cookies (this is what I must tell myself). But, honestly, three dollars is a small price to pay for a little bag of heaven. So that is not even the only reason I rarely purchase Milanos.
It’s because when I do, I usually eat an entire bag of cookies within a day.
If you are one of the poor people that cruel misfortune has somehow deprived so far of Milanos, let me explain to you how a bag is set up. They are in a pretty bag that’s top is folded down. When you unfold it, you find a layer of Milanos in the little crinkly paper cup-like thing you see in the picture above. There is typically five cookies per cup, and when you finish those, you take out the little paper thing and then there’s another layer, and then a final layer.
When I eat Milanos, this is typically how it happens. I buy them, get home, open the bag, and proceed to eat two to three cookies. I am able to restrain myself this first time because I always initially start with the willpower to “save the rest for later” and to “make this bag count.” Then, comes my Milano breakfast. The morning after purchasing the Milanos, I always eat approximately five for my breakfast as I’m scrambling, already late, to find something I can carry with me out the door as I rush to class. This morning was no different. When you remove the first layer, you don’t feel so bad. You think, oh my god, how could I forget how delicious those were? Thank goodness I’ve got two more layers! But with every layer I peel back, I am faced with another layer of my own unstoppable gluttony. It’s like my brain can’t even conceptualize how delicious I find Milanos, and I forget until I start eating them again. Then I can’t quit eating them. I just go back for one more, and then another, and then another. And that’s how, 24 hours after I purchased them, I find myself at the bottom of the bag, with only three lonely Milanos left and my tastebuds demanding I feed their drug-like addiction to the taste.
But Sara, surely you are saying, you said this post wasn’t just about Milanos! And you, of course, would be right. But I promise, this was necessary to set up.
What I realized tonight, as I crouched over my bag of Milanos, slavering over them while still at my kitchen counter like a heathen, is that Milanos are kind of like writing for me. I have a bad tendency to go long periods of time in between my writing, where I let the every day dross of life fill my time and distract my purpose, so that I tell myself “Oh, I can always write later. There’s no deadline on that.” But eventually, I always (ALWAYS) come to a point where I can go no longer. My skin gets this almost itchy feeling, my brain will simply not stop at night with plot ideas or snippets of dialogue or clever titles, and I feel as if I’m going to simply burst if I don’t get to a computer. I will  have to write, and much like with Milanos, I always forgot how wonderful it makes me feel until I’m actually doing it again. And then it’s like I can’t stop, and layer after layer of my brain reveals itself to me, I pull the ideas from the bag of my head, and  they are quite simply consumed by my computer.  It’s a glorious, reassuring process that always helps me feel again that I really am a writer, and that this is what I should be doing, because I can’t seem to not. If I had to choose between the two, I would choose writing over Milanos, and that’s saying something.
By tomorrow morning, I will have finished the Milanos (for my breakfast), and I will have proven to myself that I am helpless to their siren call. But after tomorrow, I can almost guarantee that I’ll have been on my computer, typing away at one of the two novels I’m working on (and have been working of for a fair amount of years. The whole long writing droughts thing makes finishing a novel slow-going). But it seems to me a good sign that writing is so wonderful to me that my mind can’t seem to grasp the pleasure I experience from it unless I’m in the midst of it, so I’ll take that positive reassurance, and hopefully have a new post for you all soon, resplendent with Spring Break reminiscences and key life events that have transpired since I last chatted with you. Also, just a quick note, if you’ve been keeping up with My Great Absurdist Love Affair/Senior Paper with Camus,  I hope you’ll cheer for me a little to hear that I’m up to almost 11 pages now. Only 14 to go! But hey, I totally love this writing thing, right? Right?????
In the meantime, cheers to a future that I hope is saturated with both Milanos and my musings, because surely if I start eating more Milanos, I’ll start writing more.

I think that is some of the soundest logic I’ve ever heard.

La revedere,
Sara

PS I said Goodbye in Romanian, because I want to go there someday.

The Pitfalls of a Mind On Spring Break

Ahhh, Spring Break. The perfect time for mysteriously disappeared bloggers to return to their sacred work (which they have been shamefully neglecting in favor of their other blog). For me, 10 days of total freedom to simply lounge about, stay up all night reading romance novels, nap an outrageous amount, write a 20 page rough draft…. wait. What did I just say?
Ah right. I forgot. Spring Break is most assuredly NOT about breaking. Instead, it is an excuse for your professors to give you as much homework as possible with the justification that you aren’t going to be doing anything else! Oh, silly professors. That’s supposed to be the point.
So thus you find me, contemplating the enormous mountain of my 20 page Senior Seminar rough draft that I must somehow overcome. I have exactly two pages done so far, and a thesis I am struggling to fully, forcefully bring to life. I’ve also just finished a book over Camus’s life (Elements of a Life by Robert Zaretsky, it’s absolutely phenomenal if you have any interest on Camus) that is making it both much more difficult and yet much easier to plan my paper. It’s probably the most difficult paper I will ever write, because the subject has become so important to me. Camus has changed my life this school year, and I’m grateful to him. It’s been a good change, amidst a welter of confusing, frightening, startling changes. Even more startling is the thought that this is the last essay I shall ever have to write. My academic years are drawing to a rapid, terrifying close. When I return from Spring Break, I will have exactly three weeks left of my academic life. This thought is nearly paralyzing; how can I possibly do everything that needs to be done in three weeks? And I don’t mean simply the tests, or even the paper, I am going to be scrambling to master. I mean, how will I possibly cram all the memories I need to cram into those three weeks to last me the rest of my life? I am contemplating not napping during those three weeks. Well, okay, let’s be real, I’m still going to nap, but at least trying to limit it to only one or two a week. I just know there’s so much I should be doing, but even worse than the panic is the feeling that I don’t even know what those things are. Surely there is a list somewhere that ensures that, somewhere down the road, years in the future,  I don’t stumble across a glaring lack of things I should have done while in college?
I feel like I’ve accomplished shockingly little. This could be because I’ve been so immersed in Camus lately, an extremely active and outspoken man, prolific with his writings. Camus, naturally, kept a journal. I’ve always had this secret terror that, since I never could be bothered to keep a journal, it meant I was not a real writer. I mean, in middle school, I wanted to be an actress. I came very late to my love of writing; at least, the idea of my own writing. I have always loved reading and the written word; in middle school I finished in the Top Ten in the Reader’s Digest Vocabulary competition of Oklahoma (I was the first ignominious one of the top ten to be out, defeated by two similarly nuanced possible definitions of “augment,” a word I will bitterly never misuse again). I discovered in 6th grade, quite by accident during an assignment, a great love of poetry. But when it came to me actually writing, it somehow just took forever to click.
I remember the exact moment it hit me, in the manner of things that are only glaringly obvious after you realize them. I think it was around 8th grade, and I was reading yet another romance novel. And there, in the back, innocuously tucked away amidst the advertisements for other books I’d already read, was a single page that said something along the lines of “Do you love romance? Have you ever considered writing a novel yourself? Check out so-and-so publishing company’s website to learn more!”
That sounds oddly specific, but that wasn’t what it said. But it was something along those lines. Even now I’m struck by the oddity of it; I had never before seen such a thing and have never seen one since in a romance novel. And I have read many, many romances. I remember thinking, why don’t I just do that? I had been essentially training without realizing it for just such a task. There were few things I knew better than a romance novel, and I have an overwhelming hoard of knowledge specific to England during the Regency period. Oftentimes I had thought before, while reading some horribly written novel, that I could do a better job. But somehow that never set the idea off in my head. I imagine that at some point or another, perhaps soon after, perhaps much farther down the road, but at some point I probably would have finally come to the conclusion. But, call me fanciful, it still seems a little like fate that I saw that ad, as if it’d been tucked away there just for me. This is how I reassure myself when I read about people like Camus faithfully keeping a journal full of important, transcendent, insightful thoughts. Perhaps great writers don’t always start out with the ambition to be so.
But, as writers (good and bad) probably tend to do, I have digressed. I was speaking of college and the lack I’ve felt in myself throughout. I used to prolifically write poetry, but in college I seem to have lost the knack. I’ve started numerous novels but never finished one (I am not counting the very short, very atrocious book I clumsily wrote in 8th grade(?) entitled “My Book,” wherein I simply transferred myself and my best friends and family into Regency England and made us all members of the aristocracy). But I have two novels that I have been finally, actually working towards. One is, naturally, a romance set in 19th century England. The other is a retelling of The Princess and the Pea. That’s something else I have an intense interest in. I adore legends, myths, and fairy tales, and some of my favorite books I’ve ever read have been retellings of them. It seemed only natural, after realizing I should write romance novels, that I come to the realization that I could write other things as well. When I was younger I read voraciously of fantasy fiction, and that influenced me greatly as well. I always dreamed of finishing a novel before college, publishing it, and it magically becoming wildly popular a la Harry Potter, and never having to worry about finding a job. I’ve accepted, sadly, that this won’t be the case. I underachieved a little on my dreams.
But this week, I discovered something that I will have when I graduate that I can be very proud of. Each year for the two divisions of the college, teachers nominate a group of seniors. From that initial list, they whittle it down to one person per each division who receives a Distinguished Graduate award. I found out on Wednesday that I was selected as the Distinguished Graduate for the Division of Arts and Humanities. I feel unbelievably honored to receive this award; I won out against some brilliant, dedicated, and involved students. So I’m going to take this honor, this faith in me that all the teachers who argued for me to win this award tacitly bestowed, and I’m going to try and conquer a little of this panic, a little of this fear, this sudden welling of uncertainty about my ability and my purpose and my future, and believe in myself.
So, with that uplifting thought, I am going to tackle that 20 page rough raft. And studying for the three tests I have the week we come back from Spring Break. And trying to figure out what important things I need to pack into those last three desperate, bittersweet weeks.
Well, right after we get back from Louisiana on Wednesday. Leaving tomorrow morning, and I can’t read/write in the car without getting sick. So that means I’ll have hours to nap on the way down there, guilt free. So suck it, Spring Break haterssss! I WILL nap for outrageous amounts of time… at least for one day.

Leka nosht,
Sara

PS I went with Bulgarian today, because I’ve had people from Bulgaria totally looking at my blogs and how cool is that?! One of my favorite soccer players, Dimitar Berbatov, is from Bulgaria. So whenever I see that people from Bulgaria have looked at one of my blogs, I can pretend that maybe, just maybe, in some bewildering, magical world, maybe famous soccer players look at random blogs from 21 year olds in Oklahoma. “Leka nosht” means “good night” in Bulgarian, or at least according to this page. And I will now leave you with a picture of me from Thursday, when I picked up my cap and gown:

cap and gown
And shout out to my Tottenham Hotspurs, who I’m repping in the background!

Why Camus is Responsible for Me Missing Class, Wanting a Tattoo, and General Other Tomfoolery

Hey, Readers.
In case you were sad or missed me (optimism), I apologize for going so long without writing. The problem was that I’ve been buried under a landslide of homework, especially relating to a class I’m taking called Senior Seminar. You have to take this class to graduate from my college, and basically all you do is write a really long essay. For some reason, I decided to specially arrange mine with a different professor and choose my own topic. I then proceeded, for some reason, to go with existentialism as my topic. I have been wading through an avalanche of Albert Camus for the past week. If you know nothing of existentialism, don’t look it up. It will probably make you very depressed. I find it fascinating, but somewhat overwhelming, and I’ve been drowning in something of an existential sea lately. I just finished (mostly) a book-long essay by Camus. It was admittedly pretty rough. But I’m here now, and hopefully I’ll be able to refrain from bombarding you with Camus-esque sayings and existential despair.
There’s been a strange repertoire of thoughts jostling around in my head for the last week; today was a Tuesday and in Political Geography Hitler guy continued to astound me with his painful awkwardness, constant commenter guy tried to chat with me, and Dr. Crow told a story about how for three days in a row in 2006 he beat geese with a stick at a local park. My mind was a little bewildered after class today.
I’ve also been terribly poor lately, and with my apartment bill coming due this week I’ve been avoiding shopping like the plague, and it’s been really hard, okay. I finally gave in yesterday and went to a thrift store with my friends, and even though all I bought was a shirt for 91 cents, I still felt a little better just for having tried clothes on. Speaking of, I’m going to be putting my outfit and my cute, less-than-a-dollar shirt on my other blog, so you should definitely do me a favor and check that out. If  $0.91 isn’t a bargain, I don’t know what is. Also, I don’t know the next time I’ll be able to go shopping because, frankly, the only way I’d have the money to is if someone took pity on me:

In the same vein of wildly improbable things that will never happen, I have decided that my next post is going to be a list of either my top favorite wedding dresses that I could never afford that I’ve ever seen on the internet, or my favorite hot guys I want to marry but will never even come within a mile of. Since I wrote so much on the hopeless romance of my life, I vowed to avoid it for awhile, but I have to comment on something frustrating- why is it that every hot guy you randomly see on TV, even if they’re not that famous, all already have girlfriends or are engaged? I was watching the FA Cup this weekend, which is a soccer tournament in England where all the lower level clubs get the chance to play bigger level clubs. There’s a lot of “giant-killing” that goes in, if you’re familiar with the term, which is why I love the FA Cup. In some instances, it’d be like if the University of Oklahoma basketball team beat the OKC Thunder. Now, I’ve already noted the fact numerous times that English soccer leagues seem to have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to hot guys (strangely, especially goalies), but the FA Cup has taught me this is true even in the lower levels of English soccer. Consequently while I was watching this weekend, I saw this super hot keeper playing for the lower league team. Naturally, I creeped him… and he was engaged. Sigh. And recently my favorite club, Tottenham Hotspur, signed a 22 year old player from Germany who is terribly attractive. I checked him out… and he has a long-term girlfriend. My plan to marry someone out of the English soccer league (they will have two of my big wish list items for a potential mate, an accent and a love of soccer) is never going to work if they all ruin it by already having significant others. It’s terribly inconvenient. I’d been planning for years to set my sister up with one of our favorite single players from Tottenham, only to discover he’d gotten married behind my back and ruined my dream of a sister/brother-in-law that would provide the necessary access to all these hot, young soccer guys. It’s no wonder that I’m so accepting of this:
catmates
This was made by my brilliant best friend Skye, by the way, and I was absolutely remiss in not including it in my last post, where it would’ve been so appropriate. However, the only slight alteration I would make is to change “spouses” to “spouse.” While I have no doubt that Skye (who is like one of those girls you see in movies, aka gorgeous, smart, funny, and yet still so genuinely nice that it’s impossible to hate her even a little bit) will end up with a spouse, I have my doubts about myself. But I don’t doubt that we will end up with cats together at some point in our lives, because we are catmates (our souls are bonded with friendship and a love of cats).
And if this is not proof enough that Skye is awesome, then let me just share something with you- she gave me the password to her Amazon Prime account so I can watch the second season of Downton Abbey online, since only the first is on Netflix. (At this point, I hope you’re saying, well of course this girl likes Downton Abbey. I assure you, it was inevitable). That is true best friendship. Sadly, the overabundance of Camus I’ve been soaking in lately has rather prevented me from actually catching up on Downton, much to my frustration.
Camus is also partially the reason that I missed my first class this morning. I was up really late trying to finish the Camus book essay I mentioned (The Rebel, if you’re interested), and it took me forever. And then, to compound matters, I got sucked into the black hole of the internet and started looking at literary tattoos, a topic I find fascinating since I plan to get one soon. Long story short, I was going to get approximately four hours of sleep when I laid down for bed, but then I couldn’t sleep. I maybe got two hours total before my alarm went off at 8:15. Groggily I rolled over to look at it in a stupor before hitting the snooze button. The third time it went off, I finally picked up my phone and actually looked at it. I randomly get the forecast on my phone every day, and what to my wondering eye should appear, but the alert that we were in a TORNADO WATCH. In JANUARY. That’s just Oklahoma for you, guys. One of the most famous quotes about this place is from Oklahoman Will Rogers, about how if you don’t like the weather here, wait a minute. It’s so true. Anyway, so I noted in disbelief that we were in a tornado watch, listened to the rain absolutely hammering down outside, considered the fact that I didn’t bring my rainboots to school this week because I had no idea it was going to rain, and decided I was going back to sleep. I’m not going to class during a tornado watch. Especially when I’ve been up all night reading Camus. It’s just too much for my soul to handle.
Something else that occupied my time last night is that I….drumroll, please… PAINTED MY NAILS! You might not be impressed with this, but you should be. I never paint my nails because I’m terrible at it and my nails are usually so short there’s barely anything to paint. I can’t stand for my nails to be long, plus I have tiny hands, and these two things combined make it look like a five year old has painted her nails whenever I do it. But I actually like how it turned out:


I always see nail tutorials that call for nail polish that costs tons of money, but I got those two colors and topcoat from Dollar Tree for $3. I call this look “The Shimmery Mermaid.” I’m sure you’re very impressed. Also, if you’re curious as to why I have the number 11 on my hand, it’s because that was the snack count for my kids today. Because that is what working at a daycare reduces you to- writing down snack count on your hands.
The last thing I want to talk about in this post is another thing that’s really been taking up my attention lately. I found this blog on Pinterest and decided to check it out, and let me just tell you, it’s awesome. It’s a list of ways to travel cheaply, something I am incredibly committed to doing. Pretty soon I’m probably going to do a travel blog post, where I show you pictures and talk about the different amazing places I’ve been able to travel to so far in my life. But from this other blog post, I have been poring over the first entry, Work Away, which allows you to select pretty much any country you might want to go to, and then shows you job openings from people all over the world. They can range from anything; from working on a carnival in Romania to house-sitting in the Swiss Alps to lambing on a Welsh farm. The variety is amazing, and the best part is that to be on this website, you must be checked out and verified as a legitimate host, so it’s safe. I’ve pretty much decided that I’m going to take one of these jobs, now it’s just a matter of finding the right one! I’m sure I’ll be talking about it more in future posts.
Well, everyone, I feel like I’ve sufficiently bored you all with a glut of random, useless details from my life to make up for my week-long absence, so I’m going to wrap it up. Please check out the new outfit post on my other blog, and also, please check out this write-up that my wonderful, talented friend Lauren did over my blogs in her online article for a local newspaper. That’s also a sign of best friendship right there, when your friends use their job to promote your hobby! Go give her some love, and check out and like her photography page as well. She’s not just a wonderful writer, she is also an unbelievably talented photographer and she took my favorite picture of me ever.

Adieu,
Sara

PS I had to go with French tonight, because that is the nationality of the great Camus (even if he was born in Algiers, he was still very, very French).