What happens on Nevada Day....

It's Nevada Day, everybody!! Every October 31st (or the closest Friday or Monday to it) every government organization shuts down for the day in reverence of the day that Nevada became a state.

I can't decide whether the day is supposed to be a celebration of the state or an apology to everyone who has the misfortune to live here. Kind of like, "Hey. We know you don't really want to be here, but would it make it better if you got a day off at the end of October? Yes? Good. Happy Nevada Day."

Either way, I love it. It's really my favorite thing about living in Las Vegas. Although, that's like saying that the steam facials are your favorite part of living in Hell.

Whatever. It's a day off. It's a day off that means I never have to work on Halloween, my second to last favorite day as a teacher. This is my first Nevada Day actually spent in the state. Last year I went to California to visit Jillian, and the year before that? I think I went to Utah. Anyway, today I'm cleaning my house, running some errands, and enjoying my fancy new TiVo. It's a good day.

It's Nevada Day, and it makes living in Nevada 1% more bearable.

Strange Bedfellows

Sometimes the parts of a thing are better than the sum of its parts. Take chocolate covered pretzels, steampunk, or Spaghetti Westerns.

Sometimes, however, the equation just flat-out stinks:

Case in point:



the fandelier.

Keepin' it Klassy folks. Keepin' it Klassy.

Dream a little dream with me....

Last night I dreamt that I was engaged to Patton Oswalt.



I will admit to the fact that I find him strangely attractive. Funny and talented goes a long way with me (and his bit about the KFC Famous bowl? Priceless. He calls it a failure pile in a sadness bowl. I love that). And there he was, in my dream. Engaged to me. And Mormon. (Even in my dream I had a hard time buying that one, what with his love of the F bomb and all.)

Anyway, after playing several rounds of Wii bowling and telling my mom that we were engaged we decided to go to a ward party (as you do on the day you get engaged). At the party we ran in to Mama Duggar who couldn't have been happier for us.


Maybe upgrading to Preferred Basic Cable was a bad idea....

How long 'til Wednesday?

Too long, let me tell ya. I swear, it's like the writers of Glee have looked into my soul and found my most favorite cheesy ballads of all time. Coming up Wednesday possibly the best so far....


And Puck ain't bad either.

It's a Long Way From Your Heart.

My dad isn't big on sympathy. This has a lot to do with being raised by two no nonsense parents on a family farm, but more to do with his super human pain threshold. The man has suffered more physical pain than 10 people put together, and he has never, ever, let it stop him. As an adult, I can understand why these two things have short circuited his sympathy receptors. As a child.....notsomuch.

Growing up, if my siblings or I got hurt in some way and came up to him (or, to be honest, Mom who was generally sitting near him) crying and holding our injuries, we were told to "stop your blubbering. It's a long way from your heart." The other, even less comforting response, given most often when he was feeling a little more irritated and/or obnoxious was: "we could always amputate at the neck." I know it will shock you, but as a child I never found either of these responses overly comforting. Have you ever tried to stop your blubbering mid blubber? It's not as easy as you might think. And amputation at the neck? Even as a very small child I was pretty certain he was kidding, but......

Now that we're adults we laugh about it, often using either of these catch phrases as a short hand explanation for our adult behavior. For instance, after spending nearly 24 hours in excruciating pain before heading to the emergency room, I could quickly explain why I hadn't considered my condition serious: "I figured it was a long way from my heart."

When I arrived and they asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10 (which is the most idiotic thing ever. Hmmmmmmm. I'm doubled over and crying from the pain in my abdomen, and you want me to choose which sad face best resembles what I'm feeling? Really??) I said "Uh, eight?" and the nurse rolled her eyes at me and said, "You're at a 10." Well, if she KNEW, why did she ask me? Huh? I mean, ask a stupid question....


On a side note: My dad had a massive heart attack a few years ago right before Christmas. It was terrifying, but after it was clear that he was going to make it all of us kids admitted to each other that we'd each been tempted to tell him to suck it up 'cause "it's a long way from your heart." I don't know that he'd have found it as funny as we did.

Why do I bring this up? Well, the other night as I was chopping lettuce for a Chinese Chicken Salad to take to a work potluck, I cut the heck out of my thumb. It was a little like this:



It took several bandaids, nearly an entire roll of toilet paper, and a lot of swearing to finally get the bleeding under control (I think it was the swearing that finally did it). Once it stopped bleeding through multiple bandaids in a matter of seconds I decided I'd be fine. I mean, it was a long way from my heart, and so what if my thumb had developed a pulse so pronounced I could both see and feel the blood pumping to the injury site?


(2 days post-chop.)


When I spoke to my sister Christy later that night she asked me if I had considered going to Urgent Care to make sure it didn't need stitches. I told her, "Pffft! It's a long way from my heart. If it's still bleeding profusely tomorrow I'll go."

I know this makes me sound super tough, but down deep I think I might have been afraid they'd decide to amputate at the neck.

Mission accomplished Dad. Mission accomplished.

What I did... Vol. 2: "Close, But No Chandelier"

When I moved into the condo I decided I wanted to go the full girly girl route with my bedroom. I based my entire design plan on the following:



I do not personally own any Tiffany's jewelry and frankly, I'm not willing to spend that kind of money on jewelry for myself. I'd rather have someone else buy me some (and we all know that ain't happening any time soon.). The fact that my own taste in jewelry leans more toward the funky than the classic hasn't stopped me from wanting a little blue box of my very own. Instead of buying a piece of jewelry just for the box, I decided to create, for not much more than the price of this teeeeeeeeny tiny little Tiffany's box,



this one



that I get to sleep in. Pretty huh?

I pretty much started from scratch with this room. I bought a new bed for only $100 from Ikea, and instead of bedside tables I chose to hang floating shelves on either side of the bed for a total of $40. Not too shabby, eh?

Then I bought two new lamps for $80 total and they are gorgeous:



They are made of acrylic and when they're lit they almost shimmer like the chandelier of my dreams.

I also found these super cute curtains for $40:



when I first found them I couldn't decide if they were the most fabulous curtains I'd ever seen or the most horrible ones. I'm glad I was brave and bought them instead of my normal boring route, 'cause I think they give the room a little something special.

A couple of weeks ago on a visit to my parents' house, my mom and I went shopping at our favorite little antique shop ever where I found this beatiful plate and creamer set:



totally unneccessary, but completely adorable. In the same vein are the vintage hand embroidered peacock pillow cases (from a different antique store):



that I had the same internal struggle over as the curtains.

To finish the whole thing off I used a duvet cover I already had, and bought a set of new Tiffany's blue sheets and two fluffy white rugs that I can't keep Austen off of.



In the end, I have a room that I love so much that I clap with glee when I come home. Not too shabby, not too expensive, and way better than that bracelet.

Cheaper than therapy....

Once upon a time when I was a junior at BYU I had a day when it felt like all the forces in the Universe (and my evil American Literature professor) were conspiring against me. I came home in a lather of anger, frustration and bile muttering incoherent threats aimed at peoplewhothinktheyknoweverythingjustbecausethey'republishedpoets, and bemoaning my sad state--brilliant, but misunderstood.

Somehow, the anger I felt at my professor expanded to include all of the boys who refused to love me until I rolled it all into a fiery ball of righteous indignation. "Why do I allow these MEN to influence me?!" I bellowed in misguided feminist furor.

I knew just what to do. I would CUT MY HAIR!! That would show all of them.

Why did I have long hair in the first place? To please boys, that's why, and what good was it doing me? Did those boys ask me out? NO!! (Perhaps this experience sheds some light on one of the reasons they didn't. Hmmmmm. Nah! I'm charming, darn it!)

Luckily, I marched my indignant self to the lovely and talented Betsy (who cuts my sister's hair to this day) who gave me this haircut:




It was 1995. Don't be hatin'.

Anywho, that haircut changed my whole perspective. I felt sassy and in control, and those boys who told me to never cut my hair yet never asked me out? Well... they still didn't ask me out, but they thought my hair was cute.

Flash forward to now. I've had really long hair for a really long time and it was just boring me to death. I feared cutting it, not because of the rejection of men (I have come to terms with the fact that I am, in fact, a man repeller) but because I didn't want to have old white lady/mom hair.

The start of this school year has been incredibly stressful for a host of reasons I'm not going to get into here for fear of releasing the "Indignation Beast" that still resides inside me, and things finally built to a boiling point. What did I do? I made an appointment with the lovely and talented Melinda who is cheaper than a shrink AND is really good with a straightening iron.

She listened to my incoherent ramblings (IhatethewayIlookeverysingledayandIdon'tknowwhattodo'causeIdon'twantmomhairorlooklikeRonaldMcDonaldsowhatshouldIdo?) calmed my fears, and gave me the cutest, sassiest, non mom hair cut ever. I LOVE LOVE LOVE it.

So here it is:

Straight:




Curly:


A good haircut can save your life.... or your sanity.