I need to get organized. No, I mean it. I sent my granddaughter to the linen closet to get a hand towel, and had to call 911 to get her out of there.

Now, I could be wrong, but I’m thinking that ain’t right.

Okay, we’ve lived in our current home for fifteen years, so that could count for part of it. People accumulate things. It’s a fact of life. But where did I get all these towels, sheets, and blankets--none of which match? I’m pretty sure it’s my husband’s fault. He can’t pass up a bargain. He probably bought mismatches on a clearance table.

Oh well, not one to slack--hey, I write fiction--this became New Year’s resolution number 967. I quickly set to work, pulling out old sheets, blankets, towels, and I got rid of everything without a partner.

I ended up with two matching towel sets, minus a wash cloth.

My little mission was pretty uneventful, well, except for the fact that as I gathered the linens to take to Goodwill, I realized our dog was missing.

She’s little, okay? It happens.

Once I rescued her from the rubble of sheets, I packed my car (which by then looked pretty much like the opening scene of The Beverly Hillbillies) and made my way to the store.

Upon my return home, I was feeling rather proud of our orderly linen closet. Adrenaline rushed through me as my eyes looked around for the next project and came to a halt at the bathroom cabinet.

The theme song for Jaws played in my mind, and I rolled up my sleeves. A quick glimpse of my face in the mirror flashed Jack Nicholson in “The Shining,” and that just scared me.

I don’t know about you but when something like that happens, I figure it’s best to let it go.

So my organizational days are over. And just so you know, if you ever come to visit, don’t expect the towels to match.