Paper Chase
by Cynthia Owen Philip

The other day I bought a brand new car. I hadn't done such a wild thing in the past 25 years and was so excited I was dancing on my tippy toes like a snap-crackle-pop Rice Crispie. I put my money down late in the afternoon on a Friday and was to pick the silver bullet up, all shipshape, the following Monday morning. At that zero hour I would deliver my faded red trade-in with, of course, my title to ownership.

It was then that the awful paper chase began. Where was that suddenly precious, absolutely necessary document without which I would not roll? I had no idea. With feigned confidence, I searched the cabinet filing drawer where I toss things like birth certificates, tetanus shot records, and other odds and ends. I found such items as the lineage of a charming, but long-deceased black Labrador named Isaac, a decayed rose from an old boyfriend, my tenth grade report card, as well as my valid passport together with those that had expired long ago . . . but no title of ownership for my about-to-collapse old car.

It was off to the bank early Saturday morning—not how I like to start my weekend—to sort through my safe deposit box. Woe! It was not there. Sunday I rummaged through desk drawers, unmarked boxes of "important" material and even the tin box that holds papers relating to my deceased parents. Still no luck. How I got a good night's sleep is a miracle to me. Sheer exhaustion, I suppose. Monday morning, after choosing between plunging into the search at once or eating a fortifying breakfast—somehow I had the sense to choose the latter—I found it on the first try. Where, I'm too embarrassed to tell you.

I got the car. I calmed down. And then, because when desperation knocks it sometime revives my practical streak, I began questioning why I habitually put myself through such self-inflicted torment. The winning explanation was, in brief: "I ‘m so busy I do not have the time to be neat. Sub-text: "I can be neat when it is of prime importance." Huh!

Not being totally delusional, I set heart and mind to not letting a crisis like that happen again. I repaired to the Internet. There, after some fussing around I got on to an organization called NAPO, the National Association of Professional Organizers. Following instructions I punched "Public" as opposed to "Membership," then "Find an Organizer." I entered my zip code and set the mileage radius at 25. Between "Space" and "Information," I took a chance on "Information"—correctly it turned out. Finally, from a long list of services, I marked "Paper only." Eureka, the names of six professional organizers appeared, with brief descriptions of what they did, their addresses and e-mails. Two of them had websites. One was Tara Schinsing in Poughkeesie, who is also a real estate agent and specializes in staging houses about to be put on the market, but does paper managing and lots of other organizing tasks as well. The other was Sarah Stitham in Olivebridge who seemed more suited to my needs.

Sarah's business is called REVAMP. I e-mailed her (sarah@revamp.tv) and she telephoned back. This is what she does. First, through a free telephone consultation, she figures out the broad outlines of your special goals. Then she visits you in situ to lay out various ways to solve your problem in your own context. This, of course involves naming categories and sub-categories into which the messy mixture can be divided, such as Vital Items: birth certificate, marriage license, insurance, bank accounts, medical records, living will, death will, and, yes, car titles. (If you've got a spouse or a significant partner and/or children their vitals should be included as well.) These should be placed in an easily carried fire- proof container, if not actually sequestered off-site.

Then, there are the papers that are special to you. Tough as it will be, they have to be separated into prioritized groups. First on my list were the mounds of research I've accumulated for books and articles that made my house into one gigantic file with folders piled on every flat surface, including the floor. They needed weeding out. Outlines of articles, drafts of articles . . .who cares about my writing backs and fills? Out they went. I reduced the pile until now what I have now is a neat array of resource materials labeled in folders in a handy filing cabinet . . . and no can't-find headaches.

Memorabilia also falls into a personally special category. But did I really need to keep the playbill of a performance I hadn't liked? Or photos of two-year-old me splashing in a plastic pool? Hard job, but that mass shrank as well. Where to put what was winnowed out is up to you. Just find a place that is not double purpose; that will only lead to new confusions.

Finally—for me—was the endless stream of stuff that comes unsolicited in the mail. That had covered the table next to my front door, the bench in my kitchen etc., etc. Most were catalogues I will never buy from, solicitations I will never read, sales advertisements that will be back next week even though I have never patronized the store, and credit cards I don't need. Out went that trash and in came the resolve never to pick up such junk twice, except to toss it in a bag destined for the recycling center. No storage needed!

That's what Sarah did for me. Some of these labors I performed on my own, some side by side with her help. When all is said and done, whatever works is usually the best plan. You can negotiate Sarah's time and fees as you go along. They seemed reasonable to me.

The prime thing is to find a professional organizer you are comfortable with. One who doesn't make you pretend you are really more organized than you actually are and who not only recognizes your needs, but listens to you every inch of the way. After all, it's your stuff, your life. My experience was super. I feel as if a pile of rocks has been lifted off my head. At last I've got the peace of mind to know that should I buy another car I will not have to ruin a weekend searching for its title. Hallelujah!