The Great Underwear Fire of 'ought 8

This particular blog has been the source of great household discord as SOME members of the family claim that the embarrassment would be too great. Well...duh. Yeah. After administering a lengthy silent treatment and coordinating an indignant phone conference with a legal consultant, a compromise was eventually reached. The injured party, who, if she cleaned her room once in a while, wouldn't be in this situation, will, henceforth, in this blog submission, be referred to as "Anna Martin."

It wasn't my finest moment but, bear in mind, everyone has a breaking point. When faced with a depletion of household resources, I generally address the issue in the same manner. While in my 30s, I was a full-time student at SUNY Geneseo, working part-time, running a youth group program with my husband, and trying to keep my kids off the streets. We were faced with an alarming spoon shortage. Sure, the easy fix would be to do the dishes but it turns out that the easier fix was to just go out and buy more spoons.

Never in a million years did I anticipate that karma would boomerang back a decade later. Having shared a small bedroom their entire lives, Sydney and "Anna Martin," enjoyed a semi-harmonious existence. Keeping the room clean was a losing battle that was detrimental to our health and well-being (see blog submission: http://amyafterthefact.blogspot.com/2013/04/painful-prom-preparations.html for photographic evidence). Consequently, the room became a black hole for underwear and a catalyst for physical altercations and shocking verbal abuse...not all of it administered by me. A woman can only be pushed so far. I'd employed every strategy I could think of...yes, I bought more underwear. And then I went out and bought even MORE underwear. We could have covered the bottoms of entire third world countries. Then I insisted that the underwear be labeled. Sharpied marker initials emblazoned the back of each garment: SM and AM. My girls were the object of locker room ridicule for years but still the problem persisted.

And then one day, the fevered pitch of their squabbling caused me to temporarily go insane. I'm not proud of my actions but I was at my wit's end. I grabbed up armfuls of underwear and stormed out of the house. I was headed to the backyard when Sydney and "Anna Martin" suddenly realized that my fiery temper was out-of-control. They raced after me, following the trail of underpants that littered the lawn like a sick version of Hansel and Gretel's's breadcrumbs. But it was too late. The lighter fluid had been applied and the match flung. Manically, I danced around the flames shouting some insanity about "burned buns" while my daughters stared in sick wonder. We'd hit rock bottom.

We rose from the embers like smoldering Fruit-of-the-Loom Phoenixes. We shook the ash from our feathers, bigger and better women. I thought. Yesterday proved that you can take the underwear from the girl but you can't always make her cover her own "assets." Rather than hording treasure, Sydney and "Anna Martin" have taken to squirreling away underwear. Yesterday, screamed threats of death were dispensed as "Anna Martin" ordered Sydney to unearth some undergarments. Always happy to please, Sydney handed her sister the requested item. "These are Sam's," "Anna Martin" shouted. How did she know, I wondered, does Sydney's friend Sam label her underwear too? Sam's underwear was thrown at Sydney and the sounds of a ruckus echoed through the house. Ass-ault with a deadly weapon, I thought to myself, idly wondering where the matches were currently located. Brad was currently keeping them out of the reach of Amy Mosiman.