Label up

Labels: They’re the answer to our problems.
My wife and I have embarked on a decluttering/organization mission, and my wife has decided that labels will solve the problems. This is how the conversation went:
ME: So a lack of labels is why things get shoved in a drawer or left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: Will we label the hamper “Dirty clothes” so they won’t be left on the floor?
HER: Yes.
ME: And that will work?
HER: Hey, I know what I could put on a label for you ...
ME: The children can hear you.
So we have begun pulling everything from every nook, cranny, closet, drawer and shelf. My wife is normally a very laid back, go-with-the-flow person, and a little disorder doesn’t affect her. It affects me to the point where I will walk around and make loud, rambling commentary which, based on a recent poll, is considered annoying by 75 percent of those in my household. But she decided we needed to take on the old “A place for everything and everything in its place” approach.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like we live in a house you’d see on “Hoarders.” Our house is a home. We live in it. And by “live in it” I mean there is the occasional dish on a coffee table or toy tied to the ceiling fan or shoe in a plant.
But then the label idea came around. She knew I was skeptical. But she told me to have faith. And by “have faith” I mean “zip it.”
She started in the bathroom, cleaning out a closet. This closet is home to medicine, cosmetics, towels, cleaning supplies, etc. First step? Everything came out. Everything. I did the sensible thing, which was to go to a different room. It was clear my wife was in a zone, and if I tried to help, I might find myself in the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom.
When I returned a while later (several days, I think), I was amazed at what I saw. If there was a magazine called “Insanely Organized Closets,” this could have been the cover shot. Everything was neat and orderly. And everything had a label on its shelf. Towels? Label. Cold medicine? Label and handy bin. Lotions? Labeled and arranged by height. For what it’s worth, I am amazed at how much lotion we own. If the entire populace of Toledo, Ohio, shows up with dry skin, I can help them out. (Side note: My label that read “Anal retentive closet” was rejected by the label commission.)
Next up was our bedroom. I was excited about this part because it gave me the chance to loudly proclaim, “If it is yours and in my room, get it out now, or I throw it out.” When the kids came in and saw the look on their mother’s face, Big Black Trash Bag of Doom in hand, toys got moving to their rooms. In fairness to the kids, I can’t really think of any time when they play in our room, so I am fairly certain the toys are coming in on their own.
After our room came the kids’ rooms, where we learned the valuable lesson: Don’t let the kids help. To them, nothing should be thrown out. Ever. A wheelless motorcycle? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!! Headless Incredibles toy from a fast-food restaurant? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!! Piece of cardboard smeared with ... something? STILL PLAYING WITH THAT!!!
Oh, and the Big Black Trash Bag of Doom? “No, no, no, this is a DIFFERENT trash bag. We’re just holding things in there for the time being. That’s the Big Black Bag of Reconsideration and Toy Healing. So stop taking things out of it.”
As we continue to go through the house, I am amazed at how much stuff we have been able to get rid of and how much better the world is, in fact, with labels. A place for everything, and everything in its place. I guess she was right. Labels make the world a better place. Bring on Toledo.