Disorder results from organization

Has anyone else noticed that, as men get older, the little quirks that became apparent in their youth become full-blown eccentricities?

Take my grandfather, for instance, a child of the Depression. He's always been a thrifty guy, running around turning off lights behind his kids and grandkids, making sure we don't refrigerate the whole neighborhood, only turning on the air conditioning after one of the dogs spontaneously combusts. But it took passing his 80th birthday to snag an extra piece of ham off a restaurant buffet and discreetly stash it in my grandmother's purse.

I'm starting to see the same frightening trend in The Other Half.

He's not particularly thrifty. His little quirk is organization.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's better to be organized than live your life like I have for years. My bathroom looks neat, but the cabinet under the sink contains piles of over-the-counter medication, hair implements, feminine hygiene products and toilet paper. Finding an aspirin requires a miner's helmet. My closet hides piles of winter clothing -- a pile of sweaters, a pile of sweat pants, etc. The cleaning products in the utility room are in no particular order, just a hodgepodge of sprayers and scrub brushes.

But one can take organization too far.

On his last day off, Mr. Half reorganized all of those areas. I returned home to find all manner of hooks, trays and shelves bearing my health and beauty aids. My walk-in closet actually could be walked into. The cleaning supplies were sorted by type and use.

A self-satisfied Mr. Half walked me through. "See ... your 409 is with the Windex because they're both spray bottles, but the Windex wipes are with the Old English wipes because they're both wipes. And now all your shampoos and body washes are on this shelf that hangs from the shower head instead of cluttering up the edge of the bathtub." At this point, some of you ladies are probably thinking, "What's she complaining about? I wish my husband would do something like that."

But do you really want your man screwing around with your system? Trust me, the reorganization fallout didn't take long to begin.

Monday morning, he was trotting around the apartment in a frenzy. "Where's the little book with all the family birthdays in it? My dad's birthday is coming up."

I looked in my closet for the pile of assorted paper goods -- note cards, coupons, a phone book and, yes, the birthday calendar. But, of course, the pile no longer existed thanks to the reorganization.

"You can't move all my stuff and then expect me to figure out where it is!" I said. The birthday calendar remains MIA.

I'm not sure how long Mr. Half's verbal and tacit criticism of my housekeeping will continue, but Monday night he explained that I could keep the carpet fluffed and avoid getting the vacuum cleaner out if I just dragged my foot in a certain direction on the heavy-traffic areas.

Lord help me. He's not even 40 yet.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who now lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.