I like organization. I like things in alphabetical order, items in systematic locations, and I feel that categories are the bomb diggity. I am not categorized, mind you, but I still like the thought of it.
While I would love to open a cupboard and admire its theme, I can’t seem to decide whether the cabinet to the right of the stove should be called the Haven for Weird Cooking Utensils or the Cozy Corner for Cayenne Spices.
Despite the fact that no one in this house has had a need for a bobby pin in over 36 years, I still house one in the junk drawer, along with a rubber band, a bread tie and a pen that has not produced ink since 1986.
I realize that organization is the key to efficiency. Clothes hung in the closet, according to style and color, would simplify my wardrobe. If I could implement a system for my shoes, that certainly might shave minutes off my morning regimen.
If, upon my return from a night out, I did not shed my jewelry as I walked through the house, I could certainly throw together a fashionable ensemble without saying bad words as I go from place to place in search of coordinating bangles.
Alas, I am incapable of keeping my socks mated and my earrings paired, and although I organized my closet a couple of years ago, it quickly went the way of the dodo bird.
I have many safe havens and special locations where I place pertinent items, yet I often forget where they are. Take this week, for instance, when I placed a very important note that included phone numbers and information in the aforementioned location.
Upon searching for it, I quickly found it was not in the little pile to the left of the refrigerator, nor was it in the letter holder on my desk.
It was not in the hip pocket of the jeans I had worn the day before, or in my eyeglass case where I put things that I really don’t want to lose. (Now that I think about it, that might be a good place to put my mind).
Losing my own stuff is one thing, but it’s quite another when I misplace important items that belong to others.
Although my family is well aware of my inability to keep track of things, they oftentimes come to me as if their items were little lambs and I their fearless shepherd.
“Mom, have you seen my iPod? Where are my cleats? My jacket was sitting right here and now it’s gone! Have you seen my shoes, my backpack, or my cell phone charger?” These things they ask of a woman who goes to the kitchen on a dead sprint and stops mid-stride as she tries to remember what she came there for.
“Hey Mom,” one son rattled off in a panic the other night, “my 30-page, hardbound, double-spaced paper is due on Tuesday, have you seen it?”
“I don’t know. What does it look like?”
“It’s a bunch of papers with words on it, and they’re, like, in English.”
“I’m not sure, did you check the bread drawer? Try your father’s workbench, the clothes hamper and the pocket of my green housecoat.”
“Why would my paper be in the pocket of your housecoat?”
“For the same reasons that the checkbook turned up in the potato drawer back in 2010. There are forces at work here that none of us can comprehend.” When the paper did not turn up, I denied knowing its existence. I blamed everyone else, including the dog, and firmly stated there was no evidence linking me to its apparent disappearance.
Later, when it was found in my special spot to the left of the fridge, all eyes were upon me.
“Who,” I asked innocently, “do you suppose put that there?”
“We’re gonna go out on a limb and guess it was you,” my son answered. “Although we didn’t find that important paper you lost the other day, we did find a couple of your earrings, and have you been missing this shoe?”
One thing is for sure, I have to get a much larger eyeglass case.
Lori Clinch is the author of “Are We There Yet?” Reach her by sending an email to loriclinch2010@gmail.com.