Anti-Organization Rationale

Take Good Care of Your Junk Drawer


A neighbor of mine, ordinarily a fine yet impulsive person, has done something very, very wrong.

She cleaned out her junk drawer.

For some reason she thought it was a good idea. And she’s proud of herself. She invited me over to see it. “Everything in its place,” she noted.

In case any of you get the notion, some day after you’ve seen one too many HGTV inspirational shows about organizing your life, that you too should engage in such an activity, I would urge you to eat a Ring Ding instead. Keep noshing until the mood passes.

I’ve been brooding about this urge to get organized due to our upcoming move across half the country . I’ve been standing in front of my junk drawer for long minutes, trying to imagine going through it, trying to imagine breaking it down and hauling it away.

There is a reason for junk drawers.

I’m convinced they exist to block the passageway to other dimensions in the time/space continuum. And I’m not even one of those people who wear aluminum hats. It is our duty as American citizens to maintain a strong line of defense. Forget about color coded terror warnings, those impractical, empty rainbows of threats from the Department of Homeland Security. You already know that we can only respond after the fact to disaster. Oklahoma bombing? Olympic explosion in Atlanta? Katrina? Tornadoes bearing down every which way in the Midwest?

Here's my theory: for unknown reasons the contents of junk drawers are Alien Entity Repellents. No matter what those folks in Roswell say, alien abductions are a crock. And it’s because of our ever vigilant construction of house hold junk drawers. You know, like clapping to keep the zebras away.

If you have been maintaining a household without a junk drawer, it’s only a matter of time before the balance of power tips.

Please. I urge you. Create a junk drawer today.

Include the following:

• broken pencils preferably with half eaten erasers

• at least four fortune cookies from Chinese take-out.

• a package of birthday candles (half full is fine)

• a couple of jingle bells

• unwrapped hard candies that will stick to the bottom of the drawer

• five boxes of matches. Not match books. Boxes.

• three marbles

• unasked for address labels from two organizations that are stuck together and therefore, unusable

• two metal skewers

• a yellow highlighter (excellent for its chemical properties, it interacts synergistically with fortune cookies to form an impenetrable wall)

• at least one figurine from a popular movie. Toy Story is best. Reports of success with Donkey, from Shreks I, II, and III, are coming in.


If you don't have a junk drawer then you have an empty drawer.

An empty drawer will result in a small passageway to an alternative universe where alien junk will seep into your pristine space unbidden.

One day you will find "frazmits" and "gurf" and "kildies" in there.

After that, you’ll only have a 48 hour envelope of time to stop the invasion.

Please heed this consumer warning now.

Go. Get unorganized.

A nation’s freedom is at stake.

Thank you.


* the following essay is written due to my wonderful husband’s despair at my lack of organizational skills. “How can you live this way? You don’t know where anything is!” he protests. He is a man who arranges his wallet with all the bills facing the same way and in value order. That thought would never ever occur to me.



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Moving Is an Art

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
From The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc.

Moving is an art, and I am not very good at it. This wonderful poem captures the feelings of the leavings. In a mobile world, two people--one of whom is me--left New England ten years ago. We were quite happy where we were, but as husband Bill says, "We go where the work is." That meant Georgia for five years. Then that meant Arkansas for five years. The 'art of losing isn't hard to master.' Except on the days when it felt impossible. Tennessee Williams' narrator, Tom, said in The Glass Menagerie, that their father worked for the phone company and fell in love with long distance. Some people enjoy fresh starts. Me? Not so much.

Now it's time to move back. We are building a house. We will wind up with friends and family and know where everything is. Hot dog rolls will open at the top. The ocean will be a mere three hours away. More importantly, the poem's last paragraph disaster of loss does not apply here. I can accept the fluster and the floundering and the fickle unpredictables because we are returning home. Together.