Getting organized -ha!

I have a secret fantasy (no, not that one, you perverts). It’s this: Sometimes I dream about being one of those women in a J. Crew catalogue – you know, the kind who glides around with a sleek Golden Retriever at her heels, tossing a football to her sons (who are clad in crisp matching Oxford shirts) before retreating to the serenity of her living room, where glossy magazines arc across a gleaming coffee table.

Here’s the sad truth: My coffee table usually holds a few crumpled newspapers with half-finished Sudokus, a mug of coffee that’s so old even the flies turn up their noses at it, and a random, linty sock. It’s often one of the neater areas of my home.

I put the blame for this, like most things that have gone wrong in my life, squarely on the shoulders of my own parents. Once I helped my mother clear out her bedroom. Halfway through a tower of papers, I discovered a book entitled “Lighten Up! Free Yourself From Clutter.” We laughed merrily – oh, the delicious irony! – until, another foot or so down, when I unearthed the identical book.

It’s obvious I need professional help (I’m talking about the cleaning aspect of my life here, though obviously other areas could use tweaking). So recently I hired someone to teach me how to whip my house into shape. Her name: Sandy Spagnolo. Her title: Professional organizer. Her mission: To restore harmony to my fire-hazard closets, basement that could double as a horror movie set and attic… well, you don’t want to know about my attic.

When my doorbell rang, I knew what to expect. Sandy would glide through my home, trailing scarves and the faint scent of ginsing, and, between sips of chamomile tea, gently arrange objects to enhance my fung shui.

I was wrong.

Sandy, a five-foot-ten redhead, burst inside like she was coming off the starting blocks of a hundred-yard dash. Within minutes, every single item of clothing I owned was spread out over my bed. “Want to keep this?” Sandy asked, holding shirts up against her body. Her tone was neutral, but her head was shaking back and forth. Vigorously shaking.

“Having my closet organized is really going to help me dress better,” I told her as she threw yet another shapeless sweater into our “donate” pile.

“Good, because I was pretty horrified when I first saw you,” she said dryly.

How could I not instantly adore her?

Sandy had explicit – some might say verging-on-bossy -- rules for my closet: Wooden hangers only (preferably from Ikea), sweaters folded into perfect rectangles, and clothing displayed from darkest to lightest hues. This was good: My closet and I needed rules.

I couldn’t wait to see what Sandy would do with my attic, a project she seized upon with undisguised relish. After she sorted all my children’s outgrown clothing and packed everything into neatly stacked bins, she proclaimed, “I am going to get you a label maker.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” I accused, grumpy from having lugged a single bulging Goodwill-bound bag down the rickety attic stairs, while Sandy single-handedly toted off an old dresser, a monster of a computer screen, and a half-dozen other bags.

“It’ll change your life,” she promised, her eyes gleaming the gleam of a fanatic.

“Keep it up and I’m putting a wire hanger back in my closet,” I threatened. Label making? It sounded like a slippery slope that would culminate in me making my own teddy-bear-stamped paper in feverish 3 a.m. scrapbooking sessions. Next thing I knew I’d be sporting a Christmas-tree sweater with tiny colored lights that actually lit up for the holidays. Label makers sounded dangerous.

Sandy ignored me and got me one anyway, then proceeded to methodically label everything in my linen closet.

I’m plotting my revenge: Those screams you’ll hear coming from my home next week? Just ignore them. I’m planning to sic my basement on Sandy.