I am a self-confessed kitsch fan. There is, I suppose, no point in denying my irresistible compulsion to use my free time to commute all over the city, trying to find bargain bins or second-hand stores to find items that are charming, but bordering on tacky. And no, I don't hunt down just any old kitschy items, I go for what I consider the holy grail of them all: I am very much into kitschy fashion, perhaps even before kitschy fashion became fashionable. I'm not lying either – I really rather like browsing through second hand clothes stores looking for a particularly unique top, skirt, or pair of embroidered jeans so I could wear them and catch a lot of interested eyes. Being a frustrated theatrical actress (because I never had the chance to get into theaters), I feel that this is the only way that I could affect the Bohemian in my soul. There is nothing like sorting through clothes that people have thrown away and finding one piece that is so old and so out of style that it comes out the other side and actually becomes unique.



So when my mother asked me to dig up some of her old clothes (from the seventies, eighties, and nineties), I had to restrain some of my excitement, because that would mean that she's thinking of letting me and my sister dig through them, pick out which ones we want, and actually have them adjusted to our liking. By the time Saturday had rolled around – Saturday being the day that we would sort through the storage closets – I was so eager that I could swear my bones were humming with all the restraint.

Most of the clothes were in a black and purple duffel bag under a pile of other stuff (including an old cookie can where I used to put my cross-stitch materials and a rather large porcelain serving plate) inside a green closet/divider right by the dining area of the house. Opening it, I barely held back an excited squeal – some of the clothes my mother used to wear, clothes that I had adored when I was much, much, younger, were in there.

The hot-pink blouse decorated with tassels of tiny seashells, discarded by my mother back then because she thought it was faded, seemed to be as vibrant as ever. I almost died with happiness when my sister pulled out a beautiful tropical forest print sun dress (it was mostly dark green with spiky leaf patterns on the fabric, interspersed with exotically scarlet flowers) that I had almost forgotten about. It was far too big on me, of course; it is more likely to fit my sister. However, she is less partial to dresses compared to myself, and I'm sure that the local seamstress could make the necessary adjustments. We also found a dress of pastel green and white swirls with gold buttons.

This is not the first time that I have swiped things that belonged to my mother in order to indulge the kitschy-ness of my wardrobe. When I was in college, I managed to find a pair of novelty earrings that belonged to her – they looked like two bright red apples made of plastic with leaves made of fake gold. Of course, it was obviously costume jewelry, the type that I suspect was popular in the eighties or early nineties, but they were just so kitsch I needed to have them. I wear them on occasion, with a cute, fairly modern black blouse, a red peasant skirt, and strap sandals. They come together so nicely that it makes me giddy.

And I have plans for these new articles of clothing I procured from my mother: I could sew some beads to off-set the shells on the pink blouse; I could wear the sun dress (after it has been adjusted) with this awesome denim jacket I found at the thrift store and; I could have the green and white dress shortened and adjusted a bit, and wear it with my black leggings and ankle boots. The possibilities, are, of course, endless, and the ultimate result is pretty much the same – I will be wearing something so old that it's new and dare I say unique.