My mother, the thrift store pirate

I am never able to visit my parents' house without coming away with a bag full of random stuff my mom has picked me up at the thrift store. Today was no exception; I received a white sweater and several books, including a never-used fitness journal (very excited about this).

My mom is a thrift store pirate. She says it is her gift, and this is true. Every Saturday, for as long as I can remember, my mother wakes up early and goes thrift store shopping. This is not a venture she takes lightly.

This is how I learned to thrift store shop:

Since the thrift store opens at 8:00, you should be there at 7:45 a.m. You get out of your car and wait by the door, sometimes in a line, as though some sort of Black-Friday frenzy is about to begin at the local Goodwill. When the doors open, you grab a cart and head to wherever the "hottest" items are going to be, deduced using a complicated algorithm involving the season, local weather, family needs, and bare instinct.

At the racks, no decisions are made. Nope, it's best to grab every article of clothing that looks like it might be your size, or your color, or your style, and throw it in the cart. Imagine you are on a shopping spree, and everything you can get in the cart in the first 20 minutes is free. You don't take time to check whether all the buttons are intact or decide if green-and-white polka dot dresses are your style. You put it in the cart. If you succeed at this step, you should have a mountain of clothing overflowing out of your cart, possibly with random sleeves dragging on the floor. This will make you feel like a crazy person, who apparently needs 438 pounds of used clothing. You should get a few odd looks.

A half-hour in, once normal people are beginning to browse the racks, you've already snapped up the best stuff in the place. You've commandeered a corner near the dressing room. Since you've worn the thrift-store-pirate's uniform of a long skirt and a tank top, you don't need to wait in line for a dressing room. No, you pull on shirts and pants right there in the middle of the aisle, turning to check out your butt in the mirror. This is where you get critical. If it doesn't fit perfectly, it goes. If it has a stain or a rip or a missing button, it goes. If it isn't quite your style, after all, it goes. Instead of pretending you are on a shopping spree, now pretend you only have $25 to your name. If the item is slightly overpriced ($3.75 for a camisole???), it goes.

This technique is super-successful. I have a closet full of clothing upstairs that you would never guess was bought second-hand. I wear mostly Express, the Gap, and Anne Taylor. I even own Oscar de la Renta, which I received from my mother as a gift with the tags still on--a $200 outfit that I would've never bought new.

The only problem? I'm 26 years old, and my mother still buys most of my clothes for me.