I’m convinced that there are two types of women in this world. There are the orderly and systematic types, and there are the chaotic women, such as myself, who cram stuff wherever we can. The systematic gals make organization look easy. They know where the mate is to each and every sock in their care. They keep their linens in chronological order, alphabetize their canned goods and have never, for any reason, misplaced a light bulb. The systematic gals have dust-free homes, their desks are without clutter, and the prospect of soggy vegetables in their crisper is more than they can bear. I am the queen of the chaotic group. While I strive for an organized existence, it eludes me at every turn. My shoes stray from their mates, my best forks hide out in the kids’ toy boxes, and I have been searching, for no less than two years, for the spare set of keys to the car. While I would love to open a drawer and admire its theme, I can’t seem to decide whether the drawer to the right of the sink should be called the Haven for Plastic Wrap or the Cozy Corner for Cloves. Despite the fact that no one in this house has had a need for a bobby pin in over 36 years, we house one in every drawer. Along with a rubber band, a bread tie and one not-quite-used Q-tips swab. Amid this chaos, there’s nothing that I dread more than when my beloved misplaces something. It compares only to being served a search warrant by a band of overzealous FBI agents, right before they toss the house. There’s no end to where this man will look. Take January 2001, for instance. It shall forever be known as The Winter That I Misplaced the Checkbook. It started with an inquiry as simple as, “Hey, have you seen the checkbook?,” but it quickly evolved into something much more. Right after we looked in the normal places such as the sewing box and the pocket of my green housecoat, my beloved spouse went through a transformation. He evolved into a man on a mission as he searched through my night stand and rummaged my magazine racks. He emptied the laundry hamper, tossed out my coupon box and then chastised me for my lack of organization in the medicine cabinets. He sorted the contents on my desk, dumped my sock drawer and had the nerve to search through the boxes of cherished items that I had stashed behind the sofa and deemed them trash. He messed up the whole house while I ran behind him pleading, “Please stop looking, I’ll find it for you. Don’t open that door! Don’t open that one either! Will you stop opening stuff? Are you insane?” I followed up with my personal favorite, “Why in the world would you check the freezer? And yes! I do have plans for those chicken gizzards.” The fact that the checkbook turned up behind the potatoes in the drawer under the oven would make no sense at all to the unseasoned mind. But as any woman worth her salt will tell you, valuable items should always be stashed in the last place the average thief would think to look. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Last Saturday night, I walked into our bedroom and caught a glimpse of my husband’s feet as they protruded from under the bed. I instantly knew he’d misplaced something and that a lecture on organization would be sure to follow. “What on earth are you doing under there?” I asked with fear. “I’m marveling at the mess.” “What are you looking for?” “I’ve lost the mate to my black oxfords. Why can’t we do something about this clutter?” “Because it’s tiring, it’s tedious, and quite frankly, I feel it’s beneath us. Besides, why would you think that your Oxfords would be under the bed?” “Because I already looked under the shoe rack and came up empty,” he replied with sarcasm. His shoe finally turned up beneath the couch cushion. But not before he rummaged my junk drawers, my glove box and the cupboard above the refrigerator, where I keep the outdated aspirin. “We’re going to have to find a way to organize this mess before we go out of our minds,” he said as he tied up his laces. “Oh, I am so on that!” I replied. “With categorize as my name and regulation as my game, I am going to put organization right at the top of my ‘to do’ list!” And I will, too, just as soon as I find a tablet and a writing utensil. Lori C linch
Are We There Yet?
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is [email protected].