bacon by any other name...

 shoes: converse brand. skirt: american eagle. shirt & bracelets: forever21. sash: off a shirt from kohl's. watch: target. earrings: hawaii.

Today's jumping-off point was EBEW's "pattern mixing" theme. You all probably know by now that I love me a mixed print or eight. In one ensemble. Which, really, if you took that exaggerative statemet literally, would be equivalent to a hole in one, a 3/4 court buzzer shot, and three Heath blizzards from DQ, all in the same day.

So far, I've only mastered the DQ blizzard, but that's okay because those puppies are delish. Do I feel a little white-trashy proclaiming that? Sure. But it's not that different from how I feel after settling in with a gigantic bowl o' popcorned butter to watch Swamp People and finding that, after awhile, I really don't even need the subtitles. If you've seen the show, you'll know what I mean.

So. Enough about you, let's talk about me. I like the irony of the girly pink satin bow/belt and the Chucks in this outfit. Unexpected & Maybe Awesome for me here. Like bacon in our salad for dinner last night. Something is definitely right in the world when everyone at the table is happily gobbling up salad as the main course, as long as that "something" is spelled B-A-C-O-N.

Happy Tuesday.

p.s. Ad slots are available for the coming month; contact me if you're interested! brittneynesmart [at] yahoo [dot] com

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missed THAT midnight train ride...

So, I didn't realize that EBEW is doing (did?) a thrift-off. Heh. My proudest thrifted find(s) can be found, altogether, in this post. Back in January.

Does this make me a loser? Yes, it totally does? Crap.









[Awkward, silent e-pause. A cough is heard in the distance.]




Welp, either way, you should go check out all the other EBEWers' thrifted finds. Seriously. You'll love it.

smells like Middle-aged Spirit...

 shoes: converse brand. skirt: american eagle. shirt: old navy. necklace: forever21. hair flower barrettes: gift. bracelet: hawaii. belt: son's old Halloween pirate costume (thrifted).

It's that time of the month again, ladies. No, not that time of the month. I mean the time for Everybody, Everywhere to wear yellow. And so I did. Do. Will. Five miles uphill both ways in snow that was waist-deep with nothing but holey socks for shoes...

I'm getting old, friends. Here's proof: (a) I turned off the radio in the car because it was "too much racket." (b) I used the phrase "too much racket." (c) I can't eat as many cinnamon bears as I used to. (d) I don't even want to. (e) I go to bed before the summer sun does. (f) I spied some off-white geriatric shoes the other day and thought of ways I could style them because they looked soooooo comfy. (g) My hip pops and creaks when I get up from the couch... (h) ...a process that takes about 14 minutes and involves a lot of huffing and puffing and heaving and rocking back to propel myself up-and-off. (i) I went for comfy over styled for this yellow challenge. I know what you're thinking ("well, floss my dentures and chew my flaxseeds!") because that's what I thought, too.

Also...Remember back when I started the 30x30? Somehow, I only ended up with 23 items. I don't know if the others were in the wash, or if I just lost them altogether and forgot about them or what...but I realized yesterday that, no, my aging eyes were not deceiving me and that, yes, I was staring at the same things over and over. And over. And those things numbered only 23. Alzheimers ahoy.

So. It's almost 4:00. Time to think about eating some dinner. Preferably something involving bran and greens. (Could I make any more stereotypical old-people references in this post? Doubtful...)

Happy Tuesday!



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springtime mourning...

 shoes: steve madden. maxi dress: gift. shirt: american eagle. belt & bracelet: forever21. necklace: downeast basics.

  

Some of you are in the throes of springtime. I'm super happy for you* [Editor's note: "*" = a total lie.], but I have to be frank: where I live, spring is about as close as discovering life on Mars.

Which isn't to say it won't ever happen -- didn't they find a form of water or gaseous substance that could potentially host some type of lifeform there? Or was that the moon? And what's with allsofasudden demoting Pluto from planet status to ex-planet status? I know it's old news, but still. Makes my heart hurt a little bit when I think of all the awesome 9-planet solar system mobiles I used to make in Science class, with cute little teensy tiny Pluto out in no-man's-land.

And when I say "all the mobiles," I of course mean one. I made one. I think. Plus a saweet baking-soda-vinegar exploding volcano, though, so don't think I was a Science class flunkie.

ANYway, my point is: the arrival spring in northern Utah isn't absolutely out of the question, but it sure doesn't look promising to happen in my lifetime. So. While the rest of the world flaunts their probably brightly-colored maxi dresses today (see what I'm talking about here), I wear black (accessorized only with spring-appropriate knick-knacks) and mourn the loss of a season that never will be.

Poor Spring. I bet, had she existed, she would've made quite the mark in the world. Probably would've played Varsity soccer and made a 3.8 and had her pick of of Ivy League schools. Then she would've turned them all down to follow her dream, enrolling in a small culinary school in Arkansas and buying a lime green VW beetle from which she would blast the Mamas & the Papas every morning on her way to her Yoga in the Park at Sunrise class.

Sighhh... So. Be kind. My Spring-less heart is in mourning.

Happy Tuesday.

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pardon me, ma'am...is that thar all you's food?

All right. It's official. I'm getting too old and delusional to think that my contortion below even sliiiiightly resembles the number eight. Check it:

Color me embarrassed. And inflexible. And anything that doesn't resemble 8.

boots & watch: target. socks: smith's marketplace. jeans: kohl's. sweater: j. crew. blazer: thrifted (the limited). belt: pocket's. flower: gifted/homemade.

Yesterday I went grocery shopping. First time in a long time. As in, our fridge was down to about a tablespoon of ketchup and some moldy cheese, which was actually going to be last night's dessert, but after having feasted on the last of the mustard and some bendable celery, we simply couldn't eat another bite. My lucky lucky family.

So. Me. In checkout line. Buying groceries. [Editor's note: Not that much, all things considered. Some produce, some meat, some breaded items. Some milk. Some chex mix. Not even pnut m&ms!]

  

When allsofasudden the man behind me says, all flirty-like [Editor's note: I think it goes without saying, but just in case: EW. and ???] “Heyyy, do you live out in the woods or something?” Inferring that I had a lot of groceries…enough, maybe, to survive the rest of the winter deep in a wooded area. I kind of smiled awkwardly and shook my head and started to "look" for something deep in my purse, a.k.a. "get off me." He registered a bit high on the oily-creep scale. Like a 9.8. Falling below a perfect-10 only because he didn't sport a large gold chain around a bare, hairy white chest. But he was just that close.

Then he started bragging to the nice grocery clerk about a song he wrote recently. He’s a songwriter. He writes songs. SONG. WRITER. My my my, aren’t we just the epitome of urban cool. And oh-so-studly that you buy your lunch of Red Bull and gum on the daily. 

Heaven forbid you buy carrots, let alone 5 pounds of them at once. Sure, those ribs in my cart are “country style,” but that doesn’t mean I milk a cow every morning. Or maybe I do (I don’t), right next to the moon-carved outhouse door and buckets o' pig slop and mucking boots. I’ll never ever tell. (But I don’t.) I just happen to not love grocery shopping, so I try to get it over with. Geesh.

Anyway. I escaped the uncomfortable situation unscathed, pulling my now seemingly 8-cart train of groceries toward my waiting backhoe in the parking lot. For all he knows, next time I make it into Town might be 6 months from now, after the Spring Thaw and Calving Time. 

[Editor's note: I'd go on, but I can't think of any more rustic analogies or phrases. Nuts. My cover is blown.]

Happy Tuesday.

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