Corduroy Faux Victorian "Maid's" Dress

Fiber Content: Polyester corduroy, I think
Year purchased: 1986, I think
Purchase price: I have no idea
Store: I have no idea. I want to say someplace like Dress Barn, but mainly because I find Dress Barn to be a funny name for a store.
Additional information/Oddities: This is the oldest dress in my collection.
How I wear it: with an apron, it is the perfect maid’s costume.

I was in high school when I got this dress. I took out the tag when I bought it because I didn’t want to know the size or the manufacturer and I hadn’t quite yet grown into my whole “buy it because you like it, not because of whose name is on it or what size it pretends you are” philosophy of clothing. A bunch of girls (blonde, designer oriented, honor students—needless to say, we didn’t keep in touch) with whom I was friends at the time kept saying it was a Laura Ashley and I let them say this. Except that Laura Ashley isn’t really known for doing black. (I bought a black Laura Ashley jacket at Salvation Army because it was Laura Ashley and black and I had to have it because of Cynthia Heimel. But I find I actually wear the jacket a lot right now because it is black and lightweight and goes with everything.)

This dress is quite flattering, in a severe, Victorian sort of way. It has a definite rural community/Amish "good dress" quality to it--as in "the dress worn to church and funerals." I have worn it with an apron in a number of acting class scenes where I played the maid (though now that I say that, I can’t remember a single one. Did I ever play a maid, in or out of acting class?)

I wanted one of my actresses to wear it for the photo shoot for My Sister In This House, but it turned out it didn’t actually fit her, despite what she claimed were her measurements on her audition sheet. Yes, this was the same actress who had her weight listed as 105 pounds and said "Well, I'm not 105, but I look 105." For all you actresses out there, don’t lie about your weight and measurements, you are only making life difficult for yourself and your costume designer. (I know Tyra Banks tells all the girls on America’s Next Top Model that they should have two sets of measurement-one which they give the client and one which are the real ones. I have no idea how that works. If I lied about that sort of thing, I would be too terrified that I would find myself in a costume which didn’t fit. I was once in an industrial for Wendy’s and they had asked us for our sizes on our audition sheet. I told them I was a size 6, because I didn’t want to be surprised on the day of the shoot. Sure enough, we get our costumes and everything ran small and all the girls who claimed to be size 2 were running around trying to trade their costumes with me, saying stuff like “but you are skinnier than me, I think this will fit you.” So heads up, saying you have a 23 inch waist doesn’t mean you will suddenly have one and the camera adds ten pounds so saying you weigh twenty pounds less than you do is a costume accident waiting to happen.)

Another nice thing about this dress is that it is warm.

I still am not quite sure I know what people mean when they use the term "Goth"

Bauhaus is playing in concert right now and I am missing it. All the black clothing in my closet is crying in protest. This isn't quite true. Bauhaus was playing in concert the night I originally wrote this, but that was months ago. Of course, it is entirely possible that Peter Murphy, Daniel Ash, David J, and Kevin Haskins are actually performing somewhere, right now, as you are reading this. But that wouldn't necessarily cause my clothes to grow vocal with me for failing to be in the audience.

It’s the wrong door.

When is a door not a door? When it is a Ducasse.

Oh the humor that kept the teenage goth girl giggling and how dull and drab it seems now, fifteen years later.

Was goth even a term we used back in the day? I remember referring to people as punk and unless someone can provide evidence to the contrary, I am going to assert that that was pretty much our default term for the people who wore combat boots, motorcycle jackets, and shaved their heads. Then in college, the people who dyed their hair candy colors and listened to SupPop bands were called coolies (which always makes people who hear my stories from those days do a double take. “Are you talking about Chinese slaves from the Nineteenth Century?” They ask.)

Not that I ever was very goth when I was a teenager. I mean, I wasn’t pink and perky with blonde highlights, but I wasn’t very punk rock or coolie either. I was just nothing. Too normal to fit in with the “weirdos” and too weird to fit in with everyone else. I didn’t wear enough black or the right kind of black on the outside and I was too black on the inside (because if I can’t reference Morrissey at a time like this, when can I?) In high school, I envied the kids who had the courage to dye their hair, shave their heads, wear combat boots, etc. Even though my clothes didn’t fit, I never actually defied the school dress code. I didn’t want to waste time writing out the norms of conduct in JUG (what detention was called. It stood for “justice under god,” because God cares if you were chewing gum or talking in class.) Also, in spite of being unhappy and disaffected, I never really wanted to annoy my parents (I was talking to Aushra about how punk rock she used to be in high school. She mentioned how people would come up to her and say, “I love your hair. My parents would never let me do that.” And her response was along the lines of, “Parents? You don’t ask their permission, you just do it and they get angry. That’s the point.”) Finally, and this is the part I have the most trouble admitting (though it shouldn’t be as it is the part which is perhaps the most obvious to everyone else,) I didn’t shave my head, dye my hair colors not found I nature, rip up my clothes, etc. because I wanted to be pretty. I wasn’t, and didn’t believe I ever would be, but I was afraid of going too far in the opposite direction, because I still hoped. So I was just enough of an outcast to be miserable, but not enough of one to actually enjoy myself.

I can’t help but think of the “goth kids” on South Park. You must prove you are not conforming to society’s rules by conforming to ours. Does anyone use the term comformist after they graduate high school?

All that black in the closet and where does it get you?

All that black in the closet and eventually it grows boring.

There comes a point when you start to rebel against the black. When you begin to feel an almost visceral desire for color. Suddenly fuschia and royal blue become appealing.

Freshman year of high school I owned so little black, but I wanted to own more. I remember the comments I would get when I would wear only black. I remember how black seemed to be a subversive act. Now it is just de rigeur. I don’t feel subversive, sophisticated, or sly. I just feel impervious to most stains.

My brother recently commented that he inherited all the flamboyance in the family. Not quite. I sort of feel like I was flamboyant enough in high school and college, that life with a child is too difficult and I don’t have the time to invest in planning my outfit for the following day the way I once did. Back when I was a teenager, I would spend hours deciding what I would wear, often tying pieces of fabric together and wearing layers. I was fond of scarves. I wore a lot more color then. I didn't necessarily care if my clothing clashed with myself. But now, I don't have that kind of time and I don't have that kind of courage (though I might argue that it is hardly courageous to ignore the visual dissonance created when pairing paisley with polka dots.)

My infant son sees random women dressed in black walking by and thinks they are me. He has actually NOT RECOGNIZED ME on days when I wear a color other than black.

Reasons to wear black (and why they are lies.):

• Black is slimming. (Except that people who wear black are either very skinny anyway or are not supposed to care about that sort of thing.)
• Black is subversive. (In what universe? Black is always the new black.)
• Black is still, to this day the color which sets one apart from everyone else. (Except that everyone else wears black, too.)
• Black goes with everything (except itself. After all, there are so many shades of black.)
  

This font is called Bauhaus 93. (Except, of course, it isn't on blogspot.)

Introduction to the closet

I have forty black dresses hanging in my closet.

By black I mean black, not black with flowers or black-and-another-color-patterned or black and white, just black.

By forty I mean I am incapable of obtaining an accurate count of the number of black dresses I own. I go to my closet and start counting, but when I get to around thirty and I get distracted, or I find some dresses folded up in a drawer, or I remember that some are at the cleaners. I also have a problem because I keep acquiring more black dresses. So I stopped counting at forty. Forty is the number over which I refuse to count.

Forty is a solid number, it has corners. It feels like a cube, which you can hold and toss from hand to hand. It has biblical significance. I could struggle against temptation in the desert, but dazzle the devil with a new dress each dawn.

The number of black dresses I own exceeds the number of boys whom I have kissed.

I have more black dresses than I have memories.

Some people, the sorts of people profiled in magazines for their excellent sense of style, may suggest I don’t own that many dresses, black or otherwise, that my closet is small and pedestrian and not worth discussing. After all, I don’t own any couture pieces, none of the dresses were made expressly for my body, taking into account all my little flaws. I haven't become best friends with anyone named Oscar or Georgio or Donatella and they aren't whipping up little concoctions for me to wear to the supermarket.

My grandmother on my mom’s side made clothing for the Sultan’s family and my father’s maternal grandmother’s mother made clothing for European royalty. So while the idea of having an entire wardrobe of custom made clothing is appealing, I really feel like I should be the one doing the construction. A couture wardrobe would be a badge of shame, a sign that I took the easy way out, that I purchased an item because I lacked sewing skills.

Also, I hate the whole exclusivity of the couture thing. I hate that there are certain handbags that one actually has to get on a list to buy and, basically, the manufacturer decides if you are important enough to actually get off the list and get the bag. This is a leather sack we are talking about people, not admission to college.

Another thing most truly fashionable people might find objectionable about my clothing is that almost all my clothes were purchased at thrift stores and resale shops. I know that shopping at thrift and vintage stores is supposed to be a sign of coolness which is why stores like Urban Outfitters exist (hey, look like you shopped in a thrift store but pay real store prices!) But I am usually too cheap to shop in real stores and I adore thrift stores. This is simply because I love the hunting aspect which thrift stores give to shopping, the sense of not knowing what I will find that day. And then there is the whole sense of accomplishment I feel when I find something at a reduced price. I have often considered something not worth buying if it is not on sale, because, let’s face it, money can be put to much better uses than clothing. When I see the prices of the clothing in photo spreads, I find myself thinking, “Do you know how much real estate a closet full of those clothes can buy?”

Anyway, better to spend the money on shoes and bags, if real estate is not an option. (If you can ever get off the wait list.)

Some people, the sorts of people who write books about simplifying your life, may suggest I own too much black, and I may agree with them, especially if I were to include the number of black skirts, pants, sweaters, shirts, and undergarments in the equation. I have too many clothes, too many dresses, and all the black is but a significant fraction of the larger problem. When looking at the whole of my closet, one isn’t overwhelmed by the amount of black, but by the sheer volume of clothing crammed into a very small space and the lack of organization. I am not one of those women with a separate, temperature controlled room for her garments (because no matter how much I may want one, whenever I see such things in other houses, I find myself imagining all the stuff other than clothing-computers, furniture, exercise equipment-which could be put into the room and the alternative uses to which the room could be put. In truth, I find closets to be a waste of space.)

I have fantasies of paring my wardrobe down, discarding all the extraneous material, all the items that will never again see the light of day. However, each bout of cleaning followed by donations to charity has little affect on the overall volume of clothing I own. In truth, I am unable to get rid of most of it. Each dress serves its own unique function. Each dress has its own special magic. Each dress has its own identity. Each one has been loyal to me (or has made promises of future loyalty which I believe) and I cannot discard it, even if I never have the opportunity to wear it again. I feel guilty just considering getting rid of certain pieces. Of course, this doesn’t apply to every dress. There are quite a few dresses I wouldn’t miss. There are quite a few dresses which I now wish I didn’t have. Unfortunately, once one becomes aware that they are keeping a collection, it becomes difficult to get rid of anything which may be part of the collection, even if the items in question have very little intrinsic value beyond their membership in the collection itself. How can I get rid of even one black dress when it is part of the larger collective?