The end of an era

Wow. Echinacea Meditacea is old. Like, really old. I'm not even a hippie climber anymore. In fact, I run now.

I'm also getting old (evidenced by my wrinkles, surly attitude, and desire to sit at a desk and work).

To reflect life changes, and to enable easier blog-finding, I'm moving. Not physically (I'm still sitting in my fluffy white bed).

Please find my sass and biting wit at my new blog http://blackwhiteandreading.blogspot.com.

May I even suggest that you follow on Bloglovin? It's way easier, and you may even find someone else smarter that takes better photos than I.

Black.White.and.Reading will consist of the following delightful tidbits:

a) What I'm reading, with full, unabridged commentary. Books, news, blogs, Vogue (duh)... you get the pic.

b) Lifestyle sh**. Yes, you should be using coconut oil all the FRIKIN time. It should be smothered all over your body, and in your hair. Want to know why? Read up. On my new blog.

c) Tutorials on hair/makeup/general classiness with my dear friend and stylist Misha.

d)  Opinions. Lots of them.

Throw in some fashion, what we're wearing, zero talk about the weather, and maybe some photos of my dog, wrap it up in some tissue paper and tie it down with raffia, and you've got the new BWR!

Enjoy!

A shared gem

Being a woman is painful. Laughing while getting your mustache upper lip waxed may be the worst.

Having a friend with a camera ready? Half painful, half delightful. I mean, how often do you get to see yourself in these most awkward situations?

I'm calling out your name but you never hear me #tbt

I'm rocking out to this throw back, because it's Thursday. It's the day, that now belongs to a hashtag####, which provides opportunity for those of us who can't come up with original material every damn day to re-use something from a long time ago (or last weekend).

Awesome.

I haven't listened to this album since, like 2011.

Listen on, ladies (and husband).

Where my feet want to be

With a lack of snow for pretty much an entire California mountain winter, spring is around the corner. And I can't wait.

I've been lusting over stupid vacations like Palm Springs. Just. Because. I. Need. Warm.

With warmth comes sandals, booties, heels, non-heels, and of course, mules-that-fall-under-the-sandal-category-as-well.

And because my parents decided to give me the middle name ZOE, I'm crazyyyy and half of the shoes I want are snake skin.

This actually has nothing to do with the fact that my parents both agreed on a middle name for me that starts with Z. I think it has more to do with my sisters throwing snakes at me as a child and thus, I have a fear of snakes.

To overcome that fear, I'm going to wear their skin in my FEET. PETA be damned. Snakes suck, and I bet there is a small subsection in PETA's establishment clause that has an asterisk next to it saying *we love animals but snakes are evil since the beginning of biblical time. 

Plus, the pattern on shoes is just too awesome to deny. And, other than those most beautiful Vince snake skin mules in the center that I may sell an arm for, the snake skin is fake (all of the badass, none of the guilt). 

None of these shoes will, however, save me from a snake bite, so that sucks.

Where do you want to put your feet? Maybe a beach? Hot wax? A tub of grapes? I'm all ears.

Stormtrooper Twerk = Valentine's Day love

My name is Jessica, and I'm a closet Star Wars fan.

I disclosed this to one of my dear friends, who then posted this video on my Facebook wall.

The video speaks for itself. The only thing I have to say is:

My whole life my white suburban brain thought Stormtroopers were probably white dudes, because I grew up with white dudes and Hans was white.

But now I know. Stormtroopers are black. No white guy could twerk it like that.

Brazilian. It's not just for butt cracks

In response to the invite to join him at the bar, I sent a disgusted "I'm already in bed because it's 9pm" selfie to my husband. 

Wrinkles and poor lighting aside, I couldn't help but notice that somehow, after a day of tearing my hair out at work, teaching a yoga class, walking the dog, changing my clothes six times and doing some laundry (which has no effect on my hair, but dang was I productive today), my hair looks so... Shiny and new. Like a virgin, touched for the very first time. 

I can take no credit for this. At all. I do everything possible to trash my hair, including washing it with the cheapest dove shampoo I can find daily, and then NOT washing it for weeks, straightening, coloring, curling, yada yada. You know what the heck we do. 

The woman who deserves the cred? My hairdresser Misha. She often spends 6 hours dealing with the many (mannnyy) strands on my head so I look less Homeschooler-like. 

So when she proposed a Brazillian Blowout via text the other day, sassy Jess responded "as long as you aren't waxing my butt crack I'm in."

Truth be told, I sort of knew what she meant. The painless 90 minute treatment involves washing your hair completely, combing some chems through every lock, blowing out yer hair, straightening that shiiiit, and then washing it all out again. 

Result? Well, photo evidence above. And it lasts for months. Look for Misha Endo Hair on Facebook if you want your own corn silk tendrils. 

Hum. Tendrils. 

Peace out Girl Scout. Or Homeschooler...

Bring out the LASER!

Putting on my make-up this morning while listening to the morning news, I almost missed my eyelid when I heard the following headline from NPR:

Scientists Say Their Giant Laser Has Produced Nuclear Fusion

All I could think about was Dr. Evil.

The Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory = Dr. Evil's volcano lab.

That is all.

Mules

I live in the land of mules. My husband, the Yosemite backcountry mounted patroller, spends most of his days with a string of mules following him.

If I drive south about an hour to Bishop, CA I can attend "Mule Days," a fun little rodeo utilizing mules instead of horses.

What I can't seem to find are mule shoes, at least not the ones that I want.

Here is what I'm looking for:

A cheap version of these beautiful specimens from Celine. But, it is difficult to even find how much these cost (you run into "Price available upon request", which doesn't even allow you to imagine emptying out your entire savings account for these delicate pieces, dang it). So, off to peruse euro-websites in search for the perfect $50 pair. No biggie, right? WRONG.

Upon searching "mules" on numerous sites, the uglies below are the best I've come up with. To be honest, I would rather wear a big smelly, large-eared animal on my feet.

Is what I'm looking for technically a mule? Is it a boot? Is it a high heel? Is it a sandal? I've even tried search terms such as "Rear-entry, high heal, closed toe," channeling 80s ski boot terms to get what I want. NOTHING.

HEY ONLINE SHOPPING WORLD: IF I WANTED CROCS OR DANSKOS, I WOULD HAVE SEARCHED "CROC-of-$%#" and "WAITRESS SHOE". These clunkers are a far cry from what I'm looking for.

Apparently, the rest of the cheap shoe world has not caught up with Celine and related beautiful mule-making couture designers. In the meantime, I'm on a shopping hold per family agreement, so even the orange stingers below can't be mine.

Oh yea, and I stopped drinking for the entire month of February. More on that stupid decision later.

Love love.

Three things to rock right now...

ONE

Jay Z

The man is married to Beyonce, who is the one person in the world that may kill it more than he does. One word: Grammys. The man raps in a 3 piece suit while his wife, a new mom, dances in a thong bodysuit and everyone's jaw drops. Okay. Here you go. Listen away.



TWO

Dry Shampoo

I haven't washed my hair in three days. I hit my snooze button four times today. I went cross-country skiing yesterday. Woke up, sprayed, rubbed it in, brushed it out, and somehow my hair looks better than it does if I spend 15 minutes in the shower, 20 minutes blowdrying and another 20 curling/straightening/otherwise destroying and frying my locks.

So, here's to you Dry 'poo. I love you...

THREE

Ralph Lauren's "Non Iron" white collar shirts

I used to iron my dad's shirts for a quarter when I was young. Consequently, I despise ironing. However, I also own 35 million white collared shirts, because that's what I wear almost daily. So waking up late, as I seem to be in the habit of doing, really puts a damper on the morning ironing routine. Since I also fail at planning ahead the night before, I end up just running late.

UNTIL...

I found these shirts. While I'd normally imagine these being marketed to your typical bachelor, they are available to the fairer sex (us). And life really doesn't get better. Out of the drier these shirts are wearable.

Thus, Jay Z pumping, dry shampoo bottle in hand, I could get ready on my 5 minute car ride to work, no prob[lem]. BAM.

Black, white, and ...

... everything in between. Grey, right? Is that what's between black and white?

Point, Jess. Get to the point.

I only really care about black, white and grey lately. Some shades of brownish-grey may be acceptable, but only with crisp white and a perfect black included.

We aren't just talking clothes (although I'm always thinking about them - and let's be honest... I've worn some form of black pant for about 3 months straight).

We are talking home decor, phone, computer background, water bottles, car, life, really. I have pinterest pages dedicated to the obsession. Two. I kind of wish my husband and dog were monochrome.

Okay, too much sepia-tone.
But you get the point
(in addition to this not being my husband)

The bigger issue is, of course: What does this say about me? I'm not depressed, because white is a HaPpY color. I'm not boring, because, well, you know me, I'm not particularly boring. I'm just not. I read books.

Guys. I bought a beautiful, highly-discounted purse, but its color was "sand", and I TOOK IT BACK. I wanted black. Or winter white.

So why this obsession? I think I just miss modernity. And clean things. Anyone else feeling like winter white and a perfect black would just make your day?

Growing up #$@*&

My husband mentioned to me (while I was doing my nighttime routine and he in the shower... so perhaps I was a bit grumpy and ready to go to bed) that I curse too much on my blog. He's probably right.

BUT, in my defense, I have just realized that I'm now a grown-up. At the ripe age of 27 (I think that's how old I am? When you start forgetting, you know you're growing old...), I am a woman, not a girl. About darn time.

With being a grown up comes the ability to curse when appropriate. Like, on blogs, when nobody can see my facial expressions, of which I have many.

Additionally, as a child, my vocabulary was severely restricted. Couldn't say "shut up" "this sucks""shit"... you get the point. NOTHIN'. In fact, we were told to call farts "sparts", which my auto-correct just confirmed my childhood fear that "sparting" is not a real verb.

Then, when I "grew up" I heard my mom say "shit," and I, well, almost "shit" my pants. And then I decided since only my mom reads this blog anyway, I can say things like "shit," because my Baptist Mommasita says it when she cuts herself while chopping onions in the kitchen.

Really, it all comes down to being ladylike and pleasant and holding in the curse words for later, though. I'm a lady. Or something. People call me ma'am and no longer ask for my ID when I order wine.

When did you first realize you were grown up? It's rough huh?

Eastside living ... ghetto running?

Panting = good.

The most beautifully long dirt road everrrrrrrrrr.

I went on a beautiful trail run yesterday. Birds were singing, sun rays were causing me wrinkles, endorphins were peaking, Maxdog ran his butt off.

And then the gunshots started.

What?! I had been on the trail for an hour. There is NO wild game in season. Seriously. So close to my comfort zone (and my body).

Maxdog luckily ran barking after the crazy hicks. I never really saw them through the thick trees. So all of you with guns: you're never alone, even when you think you are. I WILL BE WATCHING YOU (with my .22 on my hip and some mace in my pocket).

XOXO

Happy Frickin' New Year

Blah!

Everyone I follow on Bloglovin' has been posting their goals for a new year, their "best moments" of 2013, what they want to buy in 2014... on and on and fricking ON with the damn YEAR CHANGE.

Guess what. It's another day. The only change is that if you still happen to write checks, which nobody does, you now have to change a 3 to a 4, which, admittedly, can be a challenge.

For 2014, I promise to keep rockin' it, just like in 2013, because I did a pretty awesome job yesterday, and I'm not going to change today. That would be dumb. It would suggest that I could possibly try harder this year to be better at my job, or a better wife, or a better athlete... like last year I was slacking, and one day is going to change anything. 

Nope. 

I wasn't, and it isn't.

For instance, over the entirety of 2013, I learned that champagne is stupid, it gives you a terrible hangover, and it doesn't taste that great. So last night, I didn't drink it. NOT a New Year's resolution, because it was still 2013, but I grew up, and hope to continue that trend. As a result, today I have no hangover. Winning. I bet you all can't say the same BITCHES!

Happy next day.

XOXO