Jacket-O

I want to make clear first that I have some obsession for black and white clothes. I have, to make ourselves understood, a white dress with black polka dots, and a black dress with white polka dots; a black skirt with white embroidery, and a white skirt with a black pattern. A black dress with white flowers. A white dress with black and white flowers printed on it. Two white dresses with a slightly different black pattern. A white dress with black borders. A black and white jumper. A black halter top printed in white. Countless black and white gingham items...
Er, I think you got it.


This morning my friend Sara and I put on comfortable shoes, fresh white cotton dresses (they're not fresher than every other colour, but they look like they are), and took some water bottles, fans and sunglasses; we rolled our sleeves up, wore a ferocious expression, and we went out for a raid - er, some shopping at the local market.
When I say "some shopping" I don't render the idea of what going shopping with Sara is like.
More than a hobby, it's a mission: when we go out shopping together, we walk for, at least, five hours, with no breaks, following a schedule that would make Lt. Hartman pale.

Sara, goddamn her!, found out some super cute denim high-waisted Capri (the last pair, *sigh*), and an eye-candy ruffled shirt.
I found nothing.
Well, at least, until I saw this.

































There and then, I thought I've never seen anything that reminded me more of Jackie Kennedy.
But I felt shivers down my spine when I realized what I was staring at: the most expensive stall in the whole market.
As usual.
I always like things I can't afford: a gift that I inherited from my mother, who is able to look at an entire clothes shop where everything -from skirts to coats - is half-price, and like the only pair of gloves that are full price.

However.
I shyly took a glance on a random label - and my heart sank: 150 € (nearly 215 $) for a vest?!
What the hell...?
My friend tried to encourage me ("C'mon, don't give up hope... Maybe they have sales"), but I knew she was only trying to make me forget that she bought the last pair of those Capri.
But, unexpectedly, she was right.
Actually, not only they had sales, but the jacket in point was, miracolously, one of those items that, having a little flaw, can not be sold at the full price (someone told me the English for this kind of clothes is "seconds": can someone tell me if it's correct?).

So, I took courage and I pronounced the terrible words.
How.
Much.
Is.
It?
Da-da-da-daaaam.

But...
Nobody was happier than me to hear the answer: 15 € - about 20 dollars!
So, here I am, now. With my brand-new black and white jacket.
Onassis, here I am!

Random hearts

Just some random clothes mixing, including my new jacket-y.
Yep. I was bored. Too hot and sultry to do anything useful, today...
And my parents stole all my new books to read 'em while they're on the beach - yeah, now my family (mum, dad, two younger brothers) is in Croatia on holiday (with my new books, and I repeat it, in case someone didn't notice - they were *my* books, including Special Topics in Calamity Physics, Stieg Larsson's trilogy, my beloved Lolita and Cats in the Belfry) and I'm here, home, with 43°C (about 110*F), four cats between my feet.
And working like a modern Stakanov.
Or Cinderella.
Or both.
You know, I have to drive for 44 km (like, uhm, 27 miles? I'm no good in interpreting conversion tables) every morning , and when I finally arrive to the office, no matter what I wear, I'm bathed in sweat and nervy as a cat.
...
I don't like driving at all, by the way.
And, you know, it's not easy to look impeccable, when the back of your white-linen dress is crinklier than a Neapolitan mastiff and your hair - the same hair that in the morning looked flawlessly curly and shiny after their nighthly pincurls threatement - look like you've survived the sinking of the Titanic.
Too bad for an elegant 1940s secretary wannabe.

Come on, fellow bloggers, cry for me.

Straight Jacket

Or, how to revamp an old jacket and come to enjoy the thread and needle.

Have you ever tidy up your wardrobe, and found some pieces of clothing you don't remember when, where or why the hell you have bought?
To me, it happens on a daily basis.
Maybe because I have too much clothes. Maybe.
Or maybe because my closet is some sort of junk shop where I use to gather everything, even remotely similar to an item of clothing, that I stumble into.
Including:
things that I recover from my relatives' wardrobes (my aunts and cousins seem to have quite a good taste in clothes, quite a bad proclivity to put on weight, and some interesting tendency on giving everything they can't wear any more to me - so that everytime they buy some fine skirt or dress, it seem to always end up in my closet);
shirts that were my mother's in the golden days;
clothes that I find at second-hand markets;
and, obviously, things that I bought when I was in high school: and that now I wonder what I had in mind when I purchased something like that.

Well, I recently found out that, apart from a disquieting amount of clothes, in the deepest profundities of my closet - buried under tons of polka-dot fabric - layed also a wondrous gadget: a sewing machine.

After some idle practising on socks and handkerchiefs, I decided to put myself to the test and try something more challenging.
I took one of the countless clothes that I didn't know what to do with - a white, anonymous, squared cotton jacket, and I revamped it - well, sort of - in a (very approximate) imitation of a circa 1940s jacket I've seen in Bologna, into the most expensive vintage store in town.
Here's the result.







Now I'm taking a proof on an old black-and-white two-piece suimsuit.
Who knows what it's going to crop out from it...