The title for this column is on a missing sticky note

When it comes to keeping my home office neat and organized, I am an abject failure. In fact, if organization is a sign of higher intelligence, you might take one look at my office and conclude it was the domain of a hardworking amoeba.

Most of the time, I work under varying levels of disaster. Sort of like the Homeland Security Advisory System, which provides a color-coded warning of terrorist activity to the American public (otherwise known as people who can do little, if anything, about it).

Just the other day, Washington raised the warning from yellow ("elevated risk") to orange ("high risk").

At the same time, my wife raised the in-house warning on my office from mauve ("sticky notes and popcans on the loose") to chartreuse ("dangerous piles of paper about to tip over").

It’s not that I am always a complete slob. My shirt is usually tucked in, and I generally shave every other day whether I need to or not. I also clean the house, including the toilets, on a fairly regular basis. And with two sons who apparently have better things to do than aim, cleaning the toilets is never quick and easy.

Me: "How the heck did you get so much pee on the shower curtains?"

Oldest son: "That’s not my pee, it’s my brother’s."

Me: "Oh really? How can you be so sure?"

Oldest son: "Because he did it when I shoved him."

Yet, when it comes to my office, well, things can get much uglier.

Let’s start with sticky notes, those little yellow pieces of paper with an adhesive back that come in multiple shapes and sizes. My desk is covered with them. I will admit it here and now: I am a sticky-note-aholic. When they come out with a patch that helps wearers break the sticky-note habit, I’m going to have to try it.

The mass of sticky notes that are strung across my upright desk like a strand of Christmas lights contain names, phone numbers, germs of ideas, words of wisdom, reminders and to-do lists. In fact, the point of some of these sticky notes is to remind me of information contained on -- yes -- other sticky notes.

Things have gotten so bad, my wife gave me a fancy notebook with a thick, textured cover on my last birthday. "Keep it on your desk and jot down all your little notes in it," she suggested with all of the subtlety of a Mafia don. "Oh, and happy birthday."

Her plan has met with mixed success. If you open the notebook, the pages are filled all right -- with many of my older, faded-yellow sticky notes. Those containing the newest information are back on my desk. I expect to find a dead fish on my chair any day now.

I also have a serious problem with popcans. They decorate my table and shelves, and not in a good way. It seems I can leave my office for a few minutes and, when I return, they have secretly multiplied. Two cans will now be four, and four cans will now be six. I have also made an interesting scientific discovery: Popcans are hermaphroditic -- a single can is capable of reproduction without the need of a sex partner.

Then there are my piles. Idea piles, bill piles, junkmail piles, magazine piles. My in-laws recently bought me a paper shredder as a gift (is there a trend here?). Quite thoughtful of them, really. The top of it is perfect for holding yet another pile of paper.

All of which frustrates my neat-nick wife to no end.

"How do you find anything in here?" she asked me the other day.

"I have my ways," I replied, trying to think of one.

"Do you even know what’s in some of these piles?"

"Uh, yeah, of course I do."

"Oh, really?"

She proceeded to sift through the nearest pile, pulling out scraps of paper, a couple Christmas cards, fliers from window cleaners and house painters, a magazine subscription form she asked me to send in weeks ago ("Oops!"), some of the kids’ schoolwork and -- lo and behold -- at the very bottom of the pile -- a brand new package of sticky notes.

"Hey, I’ve been looking for those," I said, and snatched them out of her hands.

Now I’m really going to get organized.

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.