Mount Sylvia

(An oldie but goodie from my private blog!)


Do your clothes reproduce in the night while you're sleeping? Mine do. I think it may have been set into action by Onyx having given birth in a laundry basket that first time. Some kind of wild cat ho' mojo kicked in, and now, as soon as the lights go out, my clothes replicate themselves. Not the ones that fit me, mind you, or the ones that don't need week-long soaks in industrial strength spot remover. Those, it would appear, are sterile. The only way I can add to those is by shopping. And, not wanting them to be lonely among all the wildly copulating cast-offs, shop I do. I'm that kind of woman.

But meanwhile, the nasty ones keep multiplying. I have a closet, two chests of drawers, and a chifferobe. At least two drawers are devoted to mateless socks. We're not going to talk about the drawer that's dedicated to hell week underwear, because there are men reading this, and we're discreet that way. I also have two rocking chairs that are damned near upended by the stuff that won't fit into the closet anymore. And Mount Sylvia on my bedroom floor is growing foothills.

My task during my two days off has been to ruthlessly sort through everything. My wash machine is smoking. Bags are stuffed full for the Salvation Army. More bags are destined for the trash. (Poor people don't do grease stains.) And by tonight, Mount Sylvia will be razed. The topography of my bedroom will be restored to its original state. And I'm sleeping with the light on tonight, because I'll be damned if I'm going through this again, just because some slut of a crinkle skirt got ideas.