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

Christmas gifts to get ... ME

Everyone has been asking my hubby (and me) what I want for Christmas.

Easy: Nothing! Your love and undying admiration. That's it. I have everything that I want. If I don't have it, it is sitting in my shopping cart on Nordstrom.com. Trust me.

BUT, if you had to get me something for Christmas... like REALLY had to get something because you'll 'splode otherwise? Okay. Here we go.

Candles. They are like crack. I'm gonna start calling them "crandles". Ha. If I'm in a bad mood, I light up a cigarette crandle. If I'm happy, I light a crandle. If camo-ed men fart in my house, I light a crandle. You get the picture.

So, support my addiction. Ship a crandle. Here are some of my favorites. Don't you wish we had the modern version of smellevision? Then you could inhale all of the delicious scents that I experience everyday, without paying the ridiculous dolla dolla bills that I dole out every few weeks.

Happy holidays?

Snowy Saturday: What I'm listening to

Little Mommasita always bought the newest Mannheim Steamroller Christmas album every holiday season. Listening to them makes me miss home, but feel cozy here in California, so it's on repeat. Hardcore repeat.

Enjoy. Shalom.

Golden City Brewery (The second largest brewery in Golden!)

The next step of our Colorado Brewery Tour happened on a total whim. Little Whitney (cute brunette on the left a few pictures down) was visiting from Kansas and wanted to buy her dad a mug from Coors Brewery. On the way out of Coors, someone commented on how huge the Coors compound was, and I brought up the "second largest brewery in Golden," the Golden City Brewery. 

Mom made a frantic U-turn of sorts, and we found our place - right next to the little health food store in Golden. Despite the freezing temperatures, there were people sitting outside, all nicely bundled up, huddling around the fire and drinking microbrews (with a baby, I might add - again, sounding much like our beloved June Lake). 

Staff: awesome. Beer: awesomer (okay Blogger, I know awesomer isn't a word. Stop auto-correcting my intentional idiocracy (also not officially a word)). 

The brewery had the wonderful homey, local feel that we've all come to expect from our local microbreweries. The beer garden with Christmas lights, families around a fire, and co-eds smoking hand rolled cigarettes (that Mommasita confused for reeefferrrrr), made it an ever better experience. Plus, it's semi-hard to find, and $5 a pint, so you really feel like you earned your beer. 

Love.

I asked this guy his name, and repeated it to myself 3 times, like you're supposed to.
His name is Matt. Or Mike. It's NOT Jeff or Bob. Fur sure.

Whitney and me, staying warmish, by totally chugging our beers
(kidding, but it was our third technical beer stop of the day).

"Are you taking a photo of me?!?! Don't take a photo of me. Seriously, I'm your mother, don't take a photo of me."
"okay mom. Taking a photo of you AND posting it on my blog for the world to see"
"love you."

Every business should have kegs of beer and a red wall.
Oh, hey! They have that...

Hard place to find. Helps if you look for a huge kettle.

Front door view. Very neighborhood. Literally in a neighborhood. 

The Spot (for free lunch, beers, family time, and nowwww... cute photos!)

Clif and I go back to Colorado every Thanksgiving. It's the one holiday for which everyone in my family decides to come home - and for good reason.

Basically, the first few days all we did was drink. Me and my Baptist family. Drankin'. I felt like I was back in June Lake! Home away from home away from home. Love.

First stop: My dad's favorite bar and restaurant in Golden, the Spot.

The Spot has an unassuming storefront (kind of boring, really), but remains quite classic-dark inside.

It has also become the place for everyone who works/knows my dad to get a free lunch, because my dad loves the place so much he gets excited and buys everyone's lunch. Adorable.

So we show up, and my dad's employees are sitting a few booths down, drinking on their lunch break of course, and my uncle and cousin waltz in a few minutes later. Awesome - you only need to go to one place to see most people we still care about in Wheat Ridge.

Dad recommends the Titan (beer) and I recommend Colette (beer) paired with the classic burger. As dear little Whitney said with mouth-half-full, "You really can't screw up a burger." She darn right. Yum.

Oh! Pretty Karah! Dad and the cause for the next family wedding.

Sister, almost sister, sister. Only 16 missing.

Check out how into family reunion dad is...

Super cool bar, made extra-pinteresty by indoor icicle lights. Let's here it: Collective "AWWWWW!!!"

It's a family reunion!  AND: There is such thing as a free lunch.
Dad is super focused, as always.

"Dad! Lean in a bit... a bit further... okay, now smile! Perrrfeeccctt"

The logo that needs some lovin' to reflect the inside coolness. Amiright?

Diet plan FAIL

I was going to work out today after work. I've been pretty alright at keeping up with both cardio AND weight training despite my hatred for weights stemming from once being a muscle-head rock climber.

Then, I glanced over updates from my favorite bloggers, all of whom spent time in NYC at the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show 2013. Ugh.

Some bloggers touched on how ridiculous the crowd of men who paid way too much for front-row tickets were, or how all of our boyfriends are now going to expect 24-pack abs (and that sucks). But most of them said somewhere in their over-glorifying posts that now they are "inspired to get out there and get fit."

Me? Well, shit. I'm never going to have toned muscles on my inner-hip (see above photo of previously unknown piece of anatomy, that being the inner-hip). Ever. Even if I ran a million miles a day and only ate vegetation, still wouldn't happen.

In the moment of frustration that evolved from my normally calm blog-reading, instead of exploding out of the door to grab my running shoes to put in 16 miles, all I could think about was how badly I was craving super disgustingly sugary macaroons. I don't even LIKE sugar anymore.

What? Really? Really.

I normally adore working out. It tends to solve all of my problems. But inner-upper-thigh toned-ness is a problem that will never be fixed by an evening workout. Damnit.

So, what's your favorite flavor of macaroon?

Eastside living part 1 (because I love writing series. Makes the creative process easier)

So I post a bunch of really awesome photos. Ok. My photo skills suck, but they are inherently better because one can't take a bad photo of Carson Peak. It's just not possible (photo below is indeed not Carson Peak).

However beautiful June Lake scenery tends to be, there are certain things that I don't take photos of because, well, that would be shocking to most. Other than the mountain views, this place takes some getting used to. There are elements that are unrefined. Yet to be refined. Lacking in refinement. My prim and proper mean grandma's worst nightmare, in other words.

"Wow, Jess. You live there. Give the place a break. It can't be that bad," you say.

Hum. Let's explore the one and only Tiger Bar.

Note: There are other bars in June Lake. But nobody frequents them. Most folks can walk to "el Tigre" which makes excessive drinking possible and, though not important for many Loopers, more responsible.

Plus, the drinks are stronger.

You walk into the Tiger, and most likely you will be sort of greeted by someone maybe if they happen to notice you. I would recommend just finding a place at the bar on a busier night.

Terry, the grumpy vet behind the bar with the second largest porn collection in the Eastern Sierra (he knows the guy with the biggest), will undoubtedly give you a hard time about your drink, no matter what you're ordering, especially if you're a blonde girl. Don't let it get to you. He's actually a really great guy, who promised to pay for all of his grandchildren's college tuition, which is why he is still working every night. Otherwise, the man would be sitting at home with his porn collection wife. Instead, he is stuck slinging drinks to you punks so his grandkids don't make great grandkids and instead go to college.

There will be exactly two to eight locals sitting at the bar, all semi-ignoring each other until non-locals walk in, in which case they will band together to ignore the out-of-towners, because socializing sucks. Especially here. Why would you want to meet someone new? You moved here to be surrounded by nature, fresh air, heavy machinery, cigarette smoke, beer cans, and your big screen tv. Don't expect to have anything resembling a conversation with a local, because all you will get is a invitation to step outside and get your ass kicked.

Funny thing is, we are all in the hospitality business. That's right. "We" hate visitors on our turf but can't live without them. The Tiger Bar is the best illustration of this. It's family friendly (because baby carriers fit well in the booths or on the bar itself), but nobody is going to quit dropping the "f" bomb just because you decided to bring your 5-year-old into our bar.

Wow. Why would anyone even go to this god-forsaken place? Well, it's not for the burgers, I can tell you that. I can't decisively say that I've had food poisoning from El Tigre, because I usually drink way too much to discount my vomiting on the food instead of the beer spiked with Tabasco and whipped cream (this actually happened once), but yea, the burgers aren't why we come here.

You should go to the Tiger Bar because it's never boring. It's also never friendly, but entertainment can't always be friendly. It's rough living on the eastside of the Sierra, and we aren't going to fake it. Well, I fake it all of the time. I even wore heels to work today. But most people, they ain't gonna fake it. They are just going to drink 17 1/2 Coors Originals, smoke a pack of cigarettes, play a few games of pool, pass out drunk (hopefully in their own bed), go to work the next day hung over, and then go straight to the bar after work to kill the hangover and talk about how bad working hung over is. Repeat x20.

When I write home about how I miss my poetry group in Boulder, now you know why.

XOXO.

Online shmoping

No, it's not a typo friends. Let's talk addiction.

Addiction in my family goes way back. And to be quite honest, I'm not sure it's a bad thing. Most folks in my family are addicted to good things: work, working out... okay, basically just those two things. My dad works a lot and my mom is super fit. Perhaps those two things go hand-in-hand. My dad is rich and my mom is hot. Dad talks about my mom's butt really openly in the office and it's weird. Sorry mom, you didn't know that until just now, but it's pretty strange. You should talk to him about it... Glad you're all in love 'n stuff though. Git it.

ANYWAY... bigger issue in MY life (again, sorry for calling out your cute butt, mom, on the world-wide-web) would have to be the fact that both of my grandmas have shopping addictions.

Yep. One grandma is a garage-sale addict. She goes "Garagesaling". VERB. It's a VERB. And no, you aren't taking your sailboat to and from garages. Yea, you ARE spending every Thursday and Friday carrying around your pockets full of quarters to all of the neighbors' houses to buy their SHIT that they've decided that they don't need, but perhaps can convince other people they may need.

I love my Garage-saling grandma. She is way nicer than the other grandma. But she also has Levi jeans in every size from infant to size 68. Literally, there are towns in northern Nebraska that are outfitted in Levis from my grandma's quarters. The woman had to start her own little business to a) fund her Garagesaling addiction and b) get rid of all of the SHIT that she bought and will NEVER need. I haven't convinced my other family members to call TLC Hoarders to check out Nice Grandma's basement, but I'm not afraid to at some point. Size 68? Really? Luckily I've already been on TLC, or I'd totally call them... but that's for another post perhaps (if you want to find it, it's season 5, episode 19 "Amy's Outreach" of "Little People, Big World" I made them take it off the air because I wasn't being paid my loyalties. Bitches.)

My other grandma, the meaner, sassier, Fox News-watching, Cadillac driving version of my mother, did not have a Garagesaling addiction. No no no no. She has a Nordstrom addiction. When everyone else in my life told me shopping was a stupid waste of time and money, mean Grandma was meanwhile buying me my first thong and fur vest. Seriously. I blame my credit-card-on-file-online account on Nordstrom.com on mean Grandma. And I'm honestly not even mad. Despite the fact that she took me out of her will because I was living in sin with my NOW husband, then boyfriend, I still think she is great because she taught me that you can buy 1) glitter 2) fancy makeup 3) black and white outfits 4) thongs and if they make you feel better, it's money well spent. And, she taught me that fitting in is more important than being comfortable, so I grew up having NO friends that I actually liked. Oh well. At least I look classy. Fashion hurts. Beauty hurts worse. But somewhere in the end you benefit. Not sure how.

So back to the $28 candle....