this isn't goodbye. not exactly.

 shoes: unionbay brand. shorts & shirt: american eagle. bracelets: forever21.

So... [Editor's note: Methinks too many sentences/paragraphs on this blog are started with the word "so." Like we're in the middle of a conversation or something. Which, who knows, maybe we are. One long conversation about my sweet tooth and flosslessness.]

So I'm downsizing my posting on this blog. I've loved it as a creative outlet, but with the start of multiple kiddos at school, a gazillion projects, some interests elsewhere, cookies to bake for after-school snacks, roses to stop and smell, and just an overall need to simplify simplify, posting to this blog on the daily is what will have to give.

There there. Don't cry. Oh, wait...are those tears of joy? Then, by all means. Bawl away.

Thank you, lovelies, for supporting me in my not-so-serious take on style and life. I'm amazed and humbled that so many of you care what I have to say...or at least inadvertently click on my URL before you realize the mistake you've made.

Cheers. And I'll see you soon for an awesome product review of something you'll totally want.

AND and happy Wednesday.

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More CeCe...

simple style...and a jazzy ride down memory lane

 shoes: cato brand. shorts: banana republic. shirt: j.crew. necklace: forever21. watch: citizen brand. pin: don't recall.

I play the piano. Did any of you know that? I used to be quite good. Not to brag [Editor's note: A preface which is unfailingly, 100%, and always followed by a statement of boast.], but I really was talented back in my teens. Won a few medals, one of which was of a golden hue.

Convinced? No? Dah well. Regardless, I had a few minutes to myself this afternoon and spent them running through some of my old music books on the piano.

(Sure, I had laundry and dishes and grocery shopping and cleaning and a zillion other things I should've been doing. But sometimes a girl feels like being rebellious. My internal rebel just happens to pound out classical music. A sohpisticated rule-breaker. Like how I envision Ms. Zeta-Jones to be.) (Because there are soooo many things she and I have in common...)

*ahem* ANYway. My piano teacher would always write the date I started learning songs at the top of the music page. I died today when I noticed one of them, on a very technical and challenging piece, was 1994. That, my dears, is SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO.

I still think I'm like 18 years old, so you can understand my jaw-dropping flabbergastic...ness. So. Be kind to this old woman. I'll probably be that lady going 18 MPH on the freeway, like, tomorrow. Oooh, but want to know what else happens tomorrow? A major hair change. Something fitting for my newly discovered old age. Like a tight perm and a bluish tint. Maybe. You'll just have to wait and see.

Happy Wednesday, you young whippersnappers.

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More J.Crew...

a simple outfit for a simple day

 sandals: don't recall. shorts: gap cutoffs. shirt: thrifted. bracelet: burntsiena designs.

Today I pulled mom-duty and instigated a morning chores regimen for my children. I was anticipating much resistance, but it backfired in a glorious way. Exhibit A: my 7-year-old son, who randomly selected "vacuum the stairs" from the chores jar, started shrieking with delight. "THIS IS THE BEST CHORE EVER! THE BEST DAY EVER! HOW DID I GET SO LUCKY?!?!?!!!!"

Sweet. The kid likes to vacuum. Note to self...

Today I really didn't want to get dressed. In fact, it wasn't until about 4 p.m. that I actually did get dressed. PJs for most of the day, because I needed to shower but didn't want to shower until I had worked out but didn't want to work out. I finally busted out some sort of sweat-provoking moves around 3 p.m. Which is sad and embarrassing but, I'm going to be brutally honest here folks, kind of awesome to do every once in a while.

Speaking of PJs...once in college I babysat a bunch of my nephews for about a week. They were young, and I became pretty engrossed in the world of diapers and spaghetti-o's. [Editor's note: Ew on those things.] Fast-forward to a conversation I was having with my roommate on the night I got back to my apartment, wherein I said something to the effect of, "I'm in for watching a movie, just let me get my jammies on first."

I'll never forget the one-raised-eyebrow she gave me. "'Jammies,' huh." Yep. Jammies. Or jammers, if you're so inclined. I was just that cool in college. Makes you wish you roomed with me, doesn't it. 

Happy Monday. 

p.s. Don't forget to contact me if you're interested in advertising on this site in the coming month! brittneynsmart [at] yahoo [dot] com  C'mon, it's fun. And everybody's doing it. Kind of. Minus the "everybody" part...

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More Paige...

Luke, I'm not your father.

 shoes: steve madden. cutoffs: express. undershirt: downeast basics. shirt: american eagle. bracelet: forever21.

Jumping-off point for this ensemble was the fact that I'd shaved my legs. Plus it was hot. Got ourselves a two-fer in the Why I Will Wear Shorts Today department. The only protest, as far as I could tell, is the fact that my legs are a pale shade of white that hovers uncomfortably between "ghost" and "dead."

To which protestations I say: Bring on the death march then. And also fame, because I'm pretty sure my legs inspired the pasty makeup job of Darth Vadar's mask-removed face near the end of Return of the Jedi. Which, in my humble opinion, was and remains the best Star Wars movie of them all. Mostly because the ewoks are cute. And Jabba the Hut is can't-look-away revolting.

I sound like a Trekkie, don't I. Er, not a "trekkie," actually, but rather I sound like whatever the name would be for the Star Wars version of an obsessed fanatic. I'm really not, and the fact that I have no intergalactic name for myself, or accompanying powers, proves it.

And, although I may or may not use the quote, "Do or do not; there is no try" on a weekly basis in casual conversation, I can safely assure you that it's almost always in reference to my hearty consumption of entire bags of pnut m&ms...

Happy Monday.

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More Forever 21...

in which the photos don't match my insides.

 shoes: don't recall. shorts: american eagle. shirt: j.crew. belt: thrifted (american eagle). bracelets: forever21. earrings: hawaii.

Traveling in Europe about 10 years ago, I was stopped and scrutinized at customs after handing them my passport. When I smile, my eyes nearly disappear into squintiness, and my smiling passport photo looked nothing like the straight-faced me. I'm sure it was for less than 10 seconds that they alternated between looking up at me and down at my photo, but it felt like an eternity. An eternity packed with crimes that I never committed but felt guilty of.

[Epilogue: Eventually they let me through, and I proceeded to eat my weight in Italian ice cream.]

My best friend growing up called them "happy clown eyes," because she said they turn into two rainbow-shaped arcs like what jolly clowns paint on their faces. Which is nice of her to try to say, but...really? Clowns? Yipes. Those guys are creepy, whether their eyes are painted happy or sad or dead.

I've always been surprised to see photos of when I'm smiling, because I look so different (a.k.a. weird) from how I feel (a.k.a. normal). Regardless, it's how my face is built, and I figure I've got a few pretty solid options for how to deal with it:

(1) botox and/or plastic surgery. With such a face, I wouldn't physically be able to smile, which means no disappearing squint-eyes ever again! Tempting. Oh. Wait. Nope. Not tempting. At all.

(2) practice and perfect a mouth-only smile. Hello teeth. And also goose-bumpy insincerity.

(3) never smile again. But I find myself too funny for that option...and my husband would miss my solo hysterical laughing fits, I just know it.

(4) just go with it. Done and done. Exhibit A:

Happy Friday!

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