Sheryl is an organizing machine. (I was going to say she’s an “organizing fool,” but it would be foolish of me since I’m the family fool.) She got everything up and out of the basement because we’re getting it finished. That was a huge effort, and she spent inordinate amounts of time organizing that. But she wasn’t done.
I came home the other day and she said, “I’m rearranging the office.” Now, that’s no small statement. We had hundreds, if not thousands, of books in our office-library. Honest to gosh. And the furniture in there is heavy.
Well, Sheryl doesn’t stop mid-project. Sheryl doesn’t hesitate. And Sheryl doesn’t dally. A day later, the office was rearranged, with the books culled down to the few hundred that were keepers. And guess what? They’re arranged by subject and author (that’s a picture of the end product). Like in a real library. I call her Dewey now. She calls me Dopey.
Sheryl is the most organized person I know. In fact, when I get up to pee in the middle of night, she makes the bed before I get back. Radar O’Reilly looks disorganized compared to her. There are upsides to her Organizing OCD.
I know where the books are. Heck, I know where everything is. She might have invented the phrase, “A place for everything, and everything in its place.” I just try to make sure that I’m not going to be put in my place.
