Wardrobe Crisis!

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What happened to generate this eye catching, dramatic headline you ask?  It started innocently enough; I was invited to the Australian Open with friends who are also business associates.  The problem is this meant “casual”.

“Casual” has always escaped me; I’m not good with casual.  Formal I nail, my work look is money no matter where you put me, but casual???

Hmmm…the tennis, right, fine: cargos, wedges, cute top, done.  But then lunch was mentioned and that threw me, lunch where? Were my cargos going to cut it? The top I was going to wear certainly wasn’t.  What now?

In my twenties this was never a problem. Lunch with the Queen, that ultra-cute white Cue outfit with the floaty skirt and short sleeved double breasted jacket would be perfect. Impromptu ski trip, no dramas; Day at the beach, sorted; Drinks with the PM, let me change my shoes and we are good to go.  I was never short of an appropriate outfit.  Now a simple trip to a slightly swankier shopping centre can throw me.

When did I go from finger on the pulse of fashion and always feeling put together to this slightly uncomfortable feeling that my shoes aren’t quite right?  Sigh.

Well, must fly, someone mentioned afternoon drinks at their place in February and I’ve got some serous planning to do!

PS: in case you are wondering I went with a good top, skinny jeans, the wedges and was boiling hot all day. My hosts showed up in shorts and thongs!  I can’t win. LOL


Winning @ The Post Christmas Sales 


Is it irrational to buy a new quilt cover because it matches the top you brought?  No?  See, now that is why we are friends!

It was an impulse buy when I hit the post Christmas sales.  I was on a high after a successful gift card shopping spree:  You know that feeling you get when it all falls into place and you get exactly what you want AND it’s on sale?

I don’t shop often, but when I do I find it difficult to get exactly what I want, then I get cranky because I don’t want to compromise, so to find everything I wanted had the same effect as downing a couple of glasses of bubbly on an empty stomach. I was swanning though the shopping centre, proudly swinging my new shiny shopping bags feeling a million dollars with a dopey grin on my face.

Not only did it match my new swanky casual but smart top, it was in the colours that Crazy Cat Boy had been hinting he’d like towels in. That made this lovely quilt set at 50% off a sign from the shopping gods.  I’d been resisting the change in towels as this is a big thing for me – I carefully coordinate my bedroom so it matches all the towels, tea towels , cushion covers and napkins throughout the house (Yes I have a problem, no I won’t be working on it.  Matching stuff is just who I am.  On hearing that I had gotten a cat, the first thing Cousin Wendy asked me was “does it match the couch?”*).

So on my next washing day, think of me as I gleefully change the “red/grey” theme for the new “blue/grey**” one.  I’ll still be wearing that big dopey grin as I slip on the European pillow covers.

*For the record no he didn’t and 18 years later he’s still dropping fur on stuff he doesn’t match.

**Ikea had perfectly matching cushion covers on sale when I dropped in there this week, so naturally I’m also the proud owner of new covers as well, so it really was a sign!  😉

I Have A Dirty Little Secret

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My name is Crazy Cat Lady and I’m an addict.  That’s the first step right, admitting you have a problem?  I was the last person I thought this would happen to.  I’m opening up so that others don’t feel they are alone…

First, I feel I have to defend myself; I’m an intelligent, articulate woman.  I hold myself to high standards and get quite angry by the low brow entertainment offerings that are so prevalent today.

Hell, one of my favourite rants is how “reality news shows” and morning TV are the reason we are becoming so dumb.  I’m passionate about education and using my time to achieve worthwhile goals.  So I’m deeply ashamed to admit my degrading addiction.

(I also believe that not returning shopping trollies to their bay in the car park is contributing to the breakdown of civilisation, but that’s a rant for another day.)

It started innocently enough; I was tired on a flight back from a client conference and wasn’t paying too much attention to my actions.  It was only one, what could it hurt? Right?

Wrong! That one hit was all it took, I was hooked.

I binged all the flight home, I couldn’t get enough.  I didn’t want to get off the flight and lose my “connection”.  I knew I couldn’t get the product at home; I’d never be able to hide the lost time and money from Crazy Cat Boy.

For the past few years I’ve hidden this dirty secret from the world, indulging while on work trips alone in my hotel room. Making excuses to leave client dinners early or showing up late for pre dinner drinks. Yes, I had sunk that low.

Only recently did I admit my problem to Super Sammie.  I expected her to recoil in horror and suggest I seek treatment immediately, but to my dismay she just smiled knowingly and shared her stash with me.  It appears that this addiction has almost reached epidemic proportions among seemingly responsible, middle class, white women.

Why admit my addiction now you ask?  Well after years of managing to keep a lid on it mostly due to the lack of opportunity to indulge it seems that I’m about to be found out.  I’ll shortly be able to feed my shame at home and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist.

So if you don’t hear from me for a while, please stage an intervention, I’ll be in my lounge room wearing PJ’s, an addict’s vacant glassy stare, slack jawed and binge watching Real Housewives….