Friday, August 31, 2012

838. She Is A Catalog

My friend, Katarina, recently moved back from Paris after living there the past five years.  She pretty much brought the entire contents of Fashion Week with her in her suitcase and her one gazillion moving boxes.  (Tidbit of actual conversation as I helped her unpack boxes:  Me:  “Katarina, more clothes?  What about, you know, tables?  And chairs?  Cleaning supplies?  Dishes?”  Her:  “I can buy those here in America.  Tell me where I can buy Jean-Jouiliett Francsia in America?”  She had a point.) 

Katarina never used to be the type of person that changes her outfit five times a day, but somehow that is who she has morphed into now. 
We meet for coffee:  she looks runway ready in Outfit #1, a silk dress with an avant-garde print of leaves and dots, accessorized with a chunky wood necklace.  I happen to run into her at the grocery store later the same day (buying cleaning supplies):  she has apparently changed into fashionable Outfit #2, a flawless ivory blouse with a beaded collar paired with a ruby red linen skirt with a cut-out design at the hem.  I swing by her house later to drop off some brownies I made for her family, and she is wearing (you guessed it) Outfit #3, a purple cashmere tank top, long green skirt with random sequins sewn on, and five-inch heels.  She tells me she would love to invite me in, but she and her husband are getting ready to go out for dinner.  I tell her to have fun and that I love her skirt.  She replies, “Oh, heaven help us!  I am not wearing this!” 
What happened to Katarina? 

I mention this dramatic transformation to The Husband.  He shrugs.  “What do you expect, MOV?  Her husband is a neurosurgeon and she is a mom.  She has the time, he has the money, why not buy some new clothes in Paris?” 
Katarina’s fashion obsession has rubbed off on her twin high-school-aged daughters.  They are teenaged versions of her:  gorgeous, gregarious, and wearing beautiful French clothes at all times.  The whole family looks as though they have stepped off the pages of an ultra-stylish magazine, or at the very least, an elite French catalog called, “Glamourez-Vous.”  Katarina does not own jeans nor will she even discuss it with me. 

I begin to develop a complex.  I cannot merely show up at Katarina’s house in a faded t-shirt and khaki shorts.  I start ironing my sundresses and looking for my pearl bracelet.  Katarina has pushed my wardrobe to a new level:  Thought About.  My wardrobe used to live in that careless and ambivalent place called Afterthought, but no longer!     
Katarina calls me last week and asks when we can get together.  My schedule is full, and the only time I have is when I am supposed to be school-supply shopping for Tall and Short. 

“Katarina, do you want to go to Target with me on Tuesday night?  We could grab a Starbucks after?” 
I go to pick her up.  I am wearing a Katarina-worthy outfit:  a fuchsia taffeta ball gown and a glittery rhinestone tiara.  There is Katarina at the door:  she’s wearing jeans with a hole in the knee.  She takes one look at me and smiles:  “MOV, thank God, you are finally dressed appropriately!”    



  1. I think I need a friend like Katarina.

  2. My wardrobe to a new level: Thought About. I laughed out loud. So funny!

  3. All I can say is "ooh la la." Profound, I know.

  4. Holy crap, Katarina would be my new ex-friend. For the seven years I lived in Dallas, I had to make sure that I was appropriately quaffed with huge hair, bejeweled with lots of large jewelry, starched jeans and cute shoes to take out my garbage. Moving to the Midwest has simplified my life considerably. Jeans from Target, hair...well basically I just need to have some on my head or put a scarf on if it is MIA, jewelry, hell any shit will do. Tattoo a ring on and call it good. We may be a tacky bunch but are chilled out.

    1. She has a fabulous sense of humor, makes me laugh a lot, and better yet she "gets" MY wacky sense of humor.

      So even though she always looks like a fashion model, I am willing to overlook that one minor flaw about her........

  5. I feel like you, begin a transplanted Californian now living just outside of NYC. Only I haven't morphed yet. Although Paris probably ratchets it up a notch so you I guess you win!

  6. LOL! I was once kind of like Katarina...then I got married and had kids.....cue the Mom jeans
    Blessings, Joanne

  7. I almost choked when you said she's a MOM - I couldn't keep a linen skirt looking decent, even before I had kids. I guess if her kids are teens they probably aren't wiping their noses on her, or using the sleeve of her silk blouse as a napkin, but still.


When you write a comment, it makes me feel like I won the lottery or at the very least like I ate an ice-cream sundae. (This has nothing to do with the fact that I did just eat an ice-cream sundae.)