Natasha sandals - full retail (yes, it does happen, but I have to be pretty much possessed by the devil first)
I do not have pretty feet, especially on hot days.
I've kind of sworn off the jumpsuits and the tie-dyed things and my obsession with egg-shaped garments has run its course - my cholesterol levels are probably at Defcon 11 after the egg gorging orgy in my wardrobe last sumer - but somehow this beast snuck through.
It has an unequivocal ugliness which was quite refreshing to me - having fallen into a happy housewife rut of throwing on an unthreatening floral frock and sandals every single day and not ruffling my feathers, or anyone else's. Exhibit A:
Somebody's mother, somebody's wife.
What a nice woman - definitely someone you can rely on for a freshly baked batch of biscuits for the Christmas party (true), and depend upon to clean up the vomit after the party and dispense Berocca and good cheer to those less sensible people who stopped when the tequila came out of the cupboard (not true).
So, getting back to that unequivocal ugliness thing, (although it must be mentioned here that the original buttons were a degree of wrong too far, even for me)...
I replaced these with mother of pearl shell buttons from the wondrous op-shop button jar.
Something mysterious I have noticed when wearing jumpsuits of even the fugliest persuasion is the significant increase in sexual harrassment from dudes on the street. It ramps up to a level similar to what I experience when I stand by the highway waiting for the bus in platform heels. But egg-shaped jumpsuits and highway mega-heels are two very different things, so how the hell are they both sexual signifiers to the psyches of a particular type of male (the type who are given to shouting "Show us your norgs, love!" from speeding utes)? The platforms I get, but this?
I put this question to my husband, and his theory is that my outfit looks so completely bonkers that the passing ute-dudes assume that I am an escaped madwoman, whose lack of inhibition and disconnect from reality might render me amenable to their suave ute-bound advances. Which makes a certain kind of sense, and coming from a male person may well be a penetrating insight into the murky depths of Man Brain, however there's not a lot of inhibition around here at the best of times, girls wander around in bikinis and not much more - to the bank or the post office, even the supermarket (surely they must shiver in the frozen food section?). So I'm not sure the novelty value of low inhibition is sufficient to explain the situation.
My theory is this:
In the male imagination a loose jumpsuit = A garment which can be removed in one fell swoop, ready to fall to a woman's ankles with a shrug of her shoulders and the undoing of a single button.
Which (like hot-two-girl-action) is one of those fantasies that boys have at 14, and never quite shake off. No struggling with intransigent bra hooks or button fumbling required!
Or maybe it's just because I look happy so to be me in all my unsuitably jumpsuited crazy lady glory!
PS. Here is my innate egg-shaped essence captured by the little dude in a drawing in the condensation on our shower screen - a remarkable likeness, I think you'll agree.
...then it must be time for the Christmas Koala to arrive!
Stamps on arm self-administered in the newsagency while I was looking the other way.
Ears $1 and Mr Potato Head $2 from the op-shop - both found and chosen by the little dude.
Run for your life Potato Head, run!
More than one person thought I'd cunningly (and dementedly) teased the little dude's hair into ear shapes. I may be bad, but I'm not that bad. Yet.
PS. The local council has festooned the streetlights near our house with decorations in the shape of wombats and koalas wearing santa hats - hence the little dude's transformation into Christmas Koala.