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.