Week 25

    So instead of writing about this last's week dress event, I'm going to attempt a little math. I think at one point I was actually good at mathematics. I remember even liking it back in the day, but that was a short lived experience. If my memory serves me correctly, this was in middle school and that was a looooong time ago. I knew my time tables and I recall some sort of jazz about prime numbers, square roots, and all that kind of poppycock. I have a flashback of making a giant toothbrush out of construction paper in Miss Bore's math class. I think the point of that project had something to do with scale and multiplication, but to me it was just a fun art project. In high school, the furthest I got in the subject was pre-calculus, and vowed to myself to never take math in college after that. Just saying, 'high school pre-cal' conjures up memories of the anxiety and panic I felt during every midterm or final. I was terrified I'd forget my #2 pencil or that my scientific calculator would die on me. I'm talking about scientific calculators and # 2 pencils, jeez, I must sound so old school! Nowadays, I imagine teenagers have no idea what a #2 pencil is, they probably think that 'hash-tag 2 pencil' is an instagram post or tweet or whatever. But back in my day, I didn't have a Mac tablet at my desk nor did I have to walk to school uphill in the snow both ways. Instead, I had to sharpen my pencils and worry about the battery life in my calculator. High school pre-cal was the extent of my exposure to numbers, I never touched the stuff after that.

   

   Actually, perhaps I'm not terrible with math. These days, when I go shopping I'm fully capable of figuring out in my head how much a dress costs if it's on sale. I'm pretty decent at deciphering the tips at restaurants too, but I blame it on being a waitress for a number of years. I know the difference between a generous and a stingy tip.  However, I have yet to master balancing a checkbook. Instead, I  play the game of swiping my card and crossing my fingers. Oh yeah, on that note, when it comes to my credit cards that's where any remaining math skills fall by the way side. No matter how much addition I do, I can never figure out why my credit card bills always end up being more money then I expect. 

     But I digress, it's time for a math problem.  I own 59 dresses. Yet, when I counted my dresses in my closet, somehow I got the number 65. I either really can't count anymore or I broke my own rules on multiple occasions. Oh man! I'd say at this point I should really just shoot for 69 dresses as my friend Emily keeps suggesting! I have absolutely no idea why she she thinks that would be a good number for me.

    Ok, back to the math. So, I have 65 dresses and I have worn 27 of them. That leaves me with 38 unworn dresses and 27 weeks to wear them. Now it's time to get out my iphone calculator... so 38 dresses in 27 weeks leaves me with needing to average 1.4 dresses in future weeks. Crap-a-doodle-do!!! This means it's time for a marathon dress week to bring that average down to one a week. I need to play musical chairs with my dresses now more than ever. This is because I just bought a one way ticket to Hawaii (departing on October 22nd)! There is no way I can stuff all of my dresses along with all my other things into two suitcases. It's time to take it up a notch or I'll end up in Hawaii with just me and my dresses. I would say that may not entirely be a bad thing...but I have to leave room for my mask and snorkel!

   

   I'm really not sure what I'm doing in this blog picture. It was a silly evening and I visited my friends Rickey and Lauren in Berkeley. With the encouragement from my buddy Rickey, I put on jorts (jean shorts) underneath my dress to try and spice up the picture. Nor do I promote smoking. I was just posing by hanging antlers over the mantle and it somehow seemed proper to hold a cigar in that type of scenario. I was trying to go for a 'dapper' look..I know, it's just poppycock. On a side note, I used a thesaurus and found that word, poppycock, it means nonsense, silliness, etc. Poppycock is my new favorite word and I plan on using it all the time now! 

Week 24

   Summer is officially in full swing! There is something about this hot, sunny season that brings me back to my childhood when it was the most exciting and exhilarating time of the year. As a kid, it meant my skin smelled like Banana Boat sunscreen and my feet had a permanent layer of dirt from running around everywhere without shoes. It meant school was out which equaled pure freedom. Summer days were filled with barefoot badmitton rallies and water-fight battles with my mom and brother in the street. I stuffed myself full of watermelon, ice cream and home made orange juice popsicle sticks. It meant family camping trips to my version of Disneyland, the most magical place on earth: Yosemite. My ideal summer nights were camping in the backyard and making shadow puppets with flashlights in the tent. 

  

    As an adult I find myself filled with that same enthusiasm I had as a kid about summer, with only a few differences. Now, my skin smells like zinc oxide sunscreen (paraben free- that's just sooo 2014). I know that I probably request a little too much time off of work so I can still experience that same sense of freedom. I've kept the tradition alive of visiting Yosemite every summer, but now it's even more of a jungle gym and magical world since I discovered rock climbing. I still stuff myself full of watermelon and ice cream, but now I prefer a citrus flavored vodka over orange popsicles. And I think I'm overdue for a good water-fight with some friends. Ultimately, I'm still pretty much a kid, except for a few details. My ideal summer night is still a backyard camp-out with flashlights and shadow puppets... just add a burly mountain (or Polynesian) man next to me, but those are just some minute technicalities I'm still working out...

   So hooray for summer! This means BBQs, beer, and homegrown veggies( I have 14 tomato plants and I'll share!) It means my clothes will smell like campfires for days and my feet will be covered in dirt from playing outside. It means I'll dump out all my camping gear, reorganize it, and come up with several frivolous items I absolutely need to complete the perfect Camping Gear Collection (for the 100th time). It means hammocks and good books, mojitos and sarongs. So thank you summer, thanks for arriving and helping me relive some of my favorite memories...and here's to making a few more (uh-hmm...that means you, burly man,...get in my tent!Just kidding! Actually, not really).

Yay! This is the first dress of the summer that smells like campfire, 

thanks to a lovely outside fire-pit evening with great friends!

Week 23

   A few days ago I walked into Rite Aid with the sole intention of buying some conditioner. However, I left the store with conditioner and a copy of GQ in my hands. I had not planned on buying a magazine, but I also didn't plan for Channing Tatum to be on the cover and to be smiling directly at me. I'm trying very hard not to spend money on any extra, unnecessary things so I can save for my Move-to-Hawaii-Fund, but sometimes there are very crucial exceptions that need to be made. This week's exception was an article written about my favorite Hollywood man, not my traditional type (but for you, dear Channing, I'll deviate from my 'type' any day of the week).  I thought to myself that this magazine would make great bathroom reading material and I'd throw it next to my copies of Rock & Ice and Anthropologie catalogs. But when the time came to bring him into the bathroom, I just couldn't do it, it didn't feel right. Most men like to believe, or perhaps just pretend to believe, that women don't go # 2, nor do we ever fart (and if we did happen to let out a toot... if one just slipped out... it would only smell like roses). No, I couldn't stash Channing next to the toilet; he's just too hot to be stored in the water closet. Also, it just felt as if by doing so, it would be letting him in on our little girl secret: we are human too.
 
   There are certain things in life you just don't do. You don't bring your dream man into the bathroom with you while you handle your business. You don't burp while french kissing a new boyfriend. You don't swallow a mouth full of wasabi on a dare. You don't wear white while backpacking or try switching to all-natural deodorant on a first date. You don't go swimming right after you eat. You don't booty dance in super tight jeans (they'll end up tearing and you'll go through jeans like they're kegs in a frat house) and you don't paddle board in a dress. Actually, the last thing...the whole 'paddle boarding in a dress' concept ain't such a bad idea, especially if the weather is nice. The worst that could happen would be that you'd fall in the water and get super cold with the possibility of inadvertently flashing some nearby boat captains. Today, I decided 'why not?', the benefits outweighed the risks.

  The sun was shinning, the weather was warm. It was the perfect day to get out on the bay with a group of my awesome coworkers. I've gone out on a SUP before, so I felt like it was a pretty safe bet that I wouldn't fall in the murky, cold bay water in a dress so I gambled...and it paid off. It probably would have been a funnier story if I said I fell in and charmed a bearded boat captain as I swam back to my board in a soaking wet dress. But unfortunately that did not happen; I'll save a story like that for another sick week. Instead, I had a fun-filled day paddle boarding in a dress. So, sometimes risking doing the things you 'don't do' just works out for the best. I'd chance blowing out another pair of jeans dancing and would accept a dare to swim on a full stomach. Yet, there are still certain things I'm keeping on my "Don't" list. I'm sticking to the unnatural deodorant for any first dates and I'll never eat a mound of wasabi in one bite again.  As for Channing Tatum, he's staying out of my bathroom. As I write this now, he's in my bedroom, laying on my bed. Now, that's definitely the proper place for him to be.

What's SUP, yo?!

Week 22

    So it was my birthday on Friday, the big 3-1! Last year I decided to make 'turning 30' less scary by taking a three month vacation to Fiji and New Zealand and it totally worked; 30 suddenly became a marvelous number. This year, turning 31 was another frightening thought...actually not really. As it turns out, it's true what you hear about your 30s being way more fun then your 20s. It's SO true! My 30th year was filled with meaningful new friendships and ridiculous adventures. So far, 31 is showing me a great time too. It was the city of Tiburon's birthday the same day as mine and that meant there was a huge party which included dancing, drinks, food trucks, and a huge fireworks display...yep all on my day! Because it was my birthday and there was a such a grand festival, you can guess it...I wore a dress. 

  

    Some of my lady friends escorted me to the shindig, but not without a champagne toast and consumption of cupcakes prior. The fun exponentially grew from there. In Tiburon, we slurped down some Mai Tais, grubbed on fish tacos and danced to live music in the streets. It wasn't just any live music, it was the cover band Wonderbread 5, which I've rocked out to before at my friend Billie's wedding.  We didn't just dance either, we got down on the stage with the band! The drummer was jammin', the stage thumpin' and before the second chorus of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" began, we jumped up on the stage, shaking it as if there were no kids around. There actually were kids around, lots of them, so I did my best to not accidentally knock them off the stage with my booty. I even tried to keep the dancing somewhat clean because of their presence. But come on, with "Pour Some Sugar on Me" playing,  it's practically impossible not to throw in a little shimmy or jiggle. 

   

     After the band finished their jams, we looked up to see displays of fire illuminating the sky, a colorful display of pyrotechnics. The night was still just beginning for some of us. We went to Sam's bar, where I was given my fair share of birthday drinks from some flirty older men. The city lights must of been beckoning us from a distance because before I knew it we were at a club in SF dancing to blasting rap music, and I certainly wasn't afraid to shimmy there. I might of even gotten a phone number from a man in flannel... I was in bed around 3, still buzzed from the energy of the day and the cranberry vodkas.  At 29, I was a grandma and in bed at nine. At 31,  I'm stoked to announce I've extended my curfew. I'm thinking that 32 ain't looking so bad either.  

Balloons are always necessary on a birthday!