A girl could get killed on a job like this.
I dived out of the way as an avalanche of Tupperware fell
out of Mrs. Fulbright's cupboard directly toward my head.
In my escape I tripped on a cardboard box full of parts-
missing appliances and barely caught myself on the
cluttered kitchen counter. The woman owns more foam meat
trays than a chain of butcher shops and every margarine
tub that ever crossed her threshold. Not only that, I'm
considering nominating her for the Cool Whip Container
Hall of Fame.
"You aren't planning to throw those out, are you?" Mrs.
Fulbright peered doubtfully into a stack of the plastic
bowls. In the top bowl the carcass of a house fly was
resting in peace. It was clear she hadn't had these out of
the cupboard since Granny of The Beverly Hillbillies and
the transplanted social-ite on Green Acres were homemaking
role models. "I've been thinking of taking up watercolor
painting. I'll need them to wash out my brushes."
Maybe. If you're recreating the ceiling of the Sistine
Chapel on the roof of the Metrodome. "Remember the vision
you created for yourself, Mrs. Fulbright?" I asked
gently. "The dream you've always had?"
She looked at me glassy-eyed, her attention still fixed on
the hundreds of ways old food containers could be made
into soap dishes, shower slippers and patio furniture.
Simple as it might seem to others, wrenching these years
of accumulation away from her was a little like ripping
out her heart. Even though she'd hired me to do it, it had
to be done with compassion. My job as a professional
organizer is part coach, champion, cheerleader, friend,
objective thinker and part cleaning lady. Interesting,
isn't it, how God designs us for a purpose? For me, an
incorrigible neatnik, this is the perfect occupation.
I love it when He does this stuff. "Vision'? Oh, yes.
Never again being hit on the head with an aluminum pie
plate," she parroted without conviction. "No more stacking
glasses five deep and being unable to pull them apart.
Room for the set of dishes my daughter gave me for
Christmas. No more stitches in my head when serving
platters fall on me." She looked longingly at the yellowed
plastic containers with which she'd bonded. "But it seems
like such a waste to throw them away."
"Don't worry." I opened another cupboard to reveal a stash
of empty squeezable bears, the kind honey comes
in. "You'll still have these."
When I pulled away from the Fulbrights', my car was full
of black lumpy garbage bags. In serious cases like that of
Mrs. Fulbright, I always take the garbage bags away with
me so as to prevent my client from having a panic attack
in the night and rescuing the detritus.
Samantha Is My Name, Busting Clutter Is My Game....
I scratched out that line in my notebook and tried again.
In Two Hours or Less I'll Un-muddle Your Mess.... False
advertising.
Tired of being left out of the neatness game? Call
Samantha Smith, professional Clutter Coach.
Too kitschy?
Got Chaos? Call Clutter Busters! "What are you doing,
Sam?" My receptionist/secretary/Jill-of-all-trades/clutter-
buster-in-training Theresa Wilcox stooped to peer over my
shoulder as I wrote.
"I'm trying to create a catchy tagline for a radio
advertisement. I'm buying time during the morning commute
starting next Monday, targeting harassed commuters who are
running late because they couldn't find their kids'
homework, their shoes or their briefcases."
"So you're after ninety percent of the country's working
population?" Theresa snapped her ever-present chewing gum.
"This morning I couldn't even find my kid. How was I
supposed to know that Hannah had packed her own lunch and
was waiting for me in the car?"
"Maybe I hired the wrong member of your family," I sighed.
Theresa is a gem, but she's not naturally gifted with the
neatness gene that runs in my family. By the time I was
five years old, I could sort laundry — polyester and
cotton, whites, darks, reds, denims, delicates and towels —
and tell the difference between the mushroom soup and the
tomato and put them in their appropriate places in the
pantry. I also had my Barbie doll's clothing sorted by
season, event — dressy, casual, dates with Ken — and
color. I still miss poor old Ken. I can't believe she
broke up with him after all these years.
Or maybe I'm just jealous that a plastic doll with bubble
hair has a better social life than I do. I admire Barbie's
panache and boldness — dumping Ken and all — but I'm the
kind of woman who sticks to what she knows. I've always
played it safe and a little boring in the romance
department. That's probably a commentary on my whole life.
Being a professional organizer and clutter coach is a
manifestation of my liking to have my world in order.
Better safe than sorry is my motto. How pathetic is that?
"Want to hear what's on your agenda this week?" Theresa
handed me a printout. "Mrs. Fulbright called. She was
wondering if you'd already disposed of those garbage bags.
Her neighbor told her about a way to make bird feeders out
of the bleach bottles and she's having thrower's remorse."
Mrs. Fulbright thinks she wants to put her life in order
but she's still having a love affair with her junk.
"What's this?" I pointed to today's three o'clock time
slot. Carver Advertising — consultation requested. I was
hoping to go home early and take a quick nap before
dinner. I'd spent the entire night before dreaming about
organizing the bathroom of a client who owns more
inventory than Walgreens. Every time I turned my back on
her makeup drawers, eyeliners would leap in with the
lipsticks and cotton balls, and makeup sponges would
proliferate like dust bunnies under a bed.
I'm an organizational consultant and clutter coach. What
am I supposed to dream about, Brad Pitt?
"I'm not sure. A secretary called this morning and asked
that you were to be there promptly at three — or else."
"Did she really say 'or else'?" I put a stray paper clip
back in its appropriate container and flipped to a fresh
page in my notebook. Theresa says my desk is a metaphor
for my life — perfectly ordered, immaculately clean and
totally predictable. I've thought of challenging her on
that but, unfortunately, most of it is true. I'd like to
think I'm at least a tiny bit unpredictable.
"She might as well have.You'd have thought she was setting
up an audience with the Queen." Theresa's expression
brightened. "Maybe you'll be hired to organize an entire
company."
Theresa has great pipe dreams. Unfortunately, people
usually don't realize how much they need me until they
lose something really important, like the deed to their
house or their diamond earrings. Then, unless they agree
to clutter coaching and a class or two, as soon I come in
to reorder their lives, they find the misplaced items and
revert to their messy ways. You've definitely got to
change a messie from the inside out.
A lightbulb went on in my brain.
Let Samantha Smith, organizational consultant and clutter
coach, organize your world from the inside out!
My cell phone rang for the umpteenth time. "Your clutter
is my business. May I help you?"
"How's my sweet little cluttermeister?" An amused voice
tickled my eardrum. "Want some lunch?"
That teasing voice gets me every time. Picturing Benjamin
Rand's soft curly brown hair, five o'clock shadow and
crooked smile, I could practically hear him reeling me in.
Still, I tried to resist. "Can't. I don't have time. I
have an appointment this afternoon. A consultation. With a
corporation."
Ben was typically unimpressed. "Stuffed shirts,
brainwashed heads, robotic activities, corporate clutter.
Cool. Not."
"Ben..."
"Besides, I've already got it cooked — almost. It will be
ready when you get there. It's on The Timer."
"You know what happened last time you used The Timer...."
"Mere technical difficulty. I've addressed the fire safety
issue. There will be no more fire trucks on the lawn or
hoses in the living room, I promise."
One could only have this conversation with Ben and have it
make sense. "Be here in twenty minutes and a gourmet feast
awaits you." And without waiting for my reply, he hung up.
Knowing he'd already decided I was coming and would refuse
to pick up the telephone again, I succumbed to the lure of
another meal made without the use of human hands.
Ben's place, a cozy bungalow-style house in south
Minneapolis, is a solid, fifty-year-old stucco. It's a
three-bedroom, single-bath home as typically traditional
on the outside as it is atypical on the inside. I've known
Ben for five years — ever since he bought the charmingly
squat little house from my great aunt Gertie. Gertie, who
feared being a "burden to family" in her old age, sold the
house, bought a loft downtown and took off on a cruise of
indefinite length. So far Gertie hasn't been a burden to
anyone but Arthur Mason, the sweet seventysomething man
she met in the cruise exercise class and promptly married.
Aunt Gertie has embraced this, her first marriage, like a
bride fifty years younger. Poor Arthur has been the victim
of Gertie's healthy cooking (miso soup, flounder and
roasted cauliflower are her specialties), her constant
redecorating of their loft (she's in an ultracontemporary
phase right now and there is not a soft or rounded edge in
the place) and healthy living (Arthur is currently
enrolled in a kick-boxing class). When I'm her age, I want
to be just like her.
The house must have a force field around it that attracts
eccentrics. Otherwise, how could one home get two of them
in a row — first Aunt Gertie and now Ben, who, among his
other distinctions is a physicist, research scientist,
inventor and inveterate chess player?
He's also a great friend. My mother wishes he were my
boyfriend, but it's not going to happen. Ben's very much
an "in the moment" type guy. He has to be. He'd probably
blow himself up if he weren't paying attention at all
times.
It comforts my mother to think that her nearly thirty-year-
old daughter has a man in her life, so I don't burst her
bubble and tell her that there is not even a remote
possibility it could be Ben. Fortunately, or
unfortunately, Mom and Dad live in Florida now, where Dad
is president of a small Christian college, so she's not
available for constant romantic input.
I love Ben, but I don't love Ben. He's a "space saver,"
like one of those promise rings young men give their
girlfriends to wear on the ring finger of their left hands
to save the space for something bigger and more permanent,
like an engagement ring. Ben, who is a gem himself, is
holding that space in my life right now. Frankly, I'm not
sure if there is a diamond of a man out there for me. I
worry about that sometimes — but not enough to do anything
about it.
I jogged up the walk and entered the house without
knocking. Ben bounded toward me and grabbed my hand. "Come
see The Timer, it is operational."