Sometimes I think I’m the most disorganized person on God’s Green Earth.

Maybe that’s hyperbole, but then again, maybe it’s not. I’ve been to a bunch of foreign countries, but not all of them, so I can’t claim verifiable status as Number One. But I’d bet lira to latkes I’m in the running.

Since I’ve always been disorganized, rather than make a fool of myself struggling against it fruitlessly, I’ve simply accepted it as a fact of life and have tried to minimize its effects. The results are varied.

Mostly what I do is train and rely on my memory. And the way I do that is by reinforcement.

Take my books, for example. I’ve got a buttload of books, so many in fact that I’ve no room anywhere in my house for another bookcase. For organized people, finding a specific book is no biggie, since they have their books arranged in a system. Maybe its according to subject matter, or author, or even Dewey Decimal. Regardless, if they want to find a book, they only need to walk over to the specific section and — Voila! — there it is.

But that wouldn’t cut it for me, since my books are on the shelves in no discernible order. While I may have some books on the same subject on the same shelf, it’s just as likely I haven’t. Instead, for example, some of my joke books might be on the bottom shelf of the bookshelf on the porch, others might be on the top of the living room’s bookshelf, next to some magic books. Still others might be next to my etymologies in my bedroom.

So how do I know which joke book is where? Simple. From day to day, I wander around, checking my bookshelves, thus keeping my books’ locations fresh in my mind. It’s not a foolproof system, not even a Dope-proof one, but it works well enough.

Sure, it takes me more time than it’d take an organized person. But one thing I’ve got plenty of in my dotage is free time — as opposed to time left.

Then there are things I can always find because I’ve got lots of duplicates. Pens are a perfect example. Because I do all my writing by hand, I’m a fiend about what pens I use. F’rinstance, with legal tabs I use Sharpie .7’s or .5’s, black ink only. I lose or misplace them fairly often, but either way it’s no problemo since I’ll just diddy-bop my Bad Self over to the pen locker and bust out a new one.

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Of pets and paper

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There are, however, two things I’m absolutely scrupulous about. One is my animals’ upkeep. They get fed measured amounts of food at the the same times of the day, every day, so their weight is maintained perfectly (as for maintaining my weight, the less said, the better). They get their flea preventative and meds when they should. And they get schlepped to the vet’s for both scheduled appointments and emergencies, when they need to.

The other thing I never slack on is paying bills and cashing checks. I take that old windbag Polonius’ advice to heart. I get a bill, I pay it the same day. I get a check, I deposit it the same day. Ipso facto.

I realize almost everyone else in what passes for civilization these days uses direct deposit and direct withdrawal for all their financial mishegas. Bully for them. But in my case it’s paper all the way. The simple fact is if I can’t hold it in my hot little meat hooks, I want nuttin’ to do with it. You always read about some schlimazel who suddenly finds out his house is about to be foreclosed because his mortgage wasn’t being paid automatically. And why wasn’t it being paid? Cuz there was some glitch somewhere in cyberland that was routing his bucks to the wrong bank or the San Francisco Old Radicals Home or some such, and now, sorry very much, there ain’t a blessed thing can be done about it.

So, is how I handle my finances for cumbersome and time-consuming? Of course it is. But on the other hand, if anything goes wrong, I know exactly where the blame lies. Besides, as I said, I never slip when it comes to takin’ care of bizness. Or at least I never had slipped … till last week.

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Of pockets and paper

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Actually, it was more the federal government’s fault than mine. If those nitwits had had any respect for history, they never would’ve made Veterans Day a three-day weekend. But because they did, Veterans Day (originally the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, when the armistice was signed for The War to End All Wars) fell on Friday, Nov. 10. Which meant the banks were closed, which also meant I couldn’t deposit my annuity check, which had arrived that day.

“OK,” I hear you say. “So just deposit it Monday.”

To which I say, “Thanks for the brilliant advice. I wish I’d have thought of that.”

Of course I had thought of that. But as for actually doing it? Easier said than done.

The problem was the three-day weekend. Because sometime Friday afternoon, I stored the check in a safe place — so safe, that by Monday morning I had no idea where it was.

What to do?

Well, first I freaked out, shook my fist at the firmament and cursed the government, the post office, and the Fates, all of whom had apparently engineered my misfortune. Then I took stock of my situation and pondered it with my usual icy detachment and keen analytical sense.

The fact was the check had to be somewhere. It wasn’t like sinister forces from The Great Beyond had taken it back whence they came and torn it up. Uh-uh, it had to be either in my car or my house.

But where?

And therein lay the problem: Because my car and house are outer manifestations of my inner sloppiness, there could be an anvil buried among the detritus of either one, and I wouldn’t know it. Beyond that, there was the chance that, somehow distracted, I’d put the check in a place no check had ever been put in humankind’s history.

But I decided to proceed in a systematic manner. First, the car. I looked under the seats, then in the console, then the glove compartment. When that yielded nada, I checked the visors, the doors’ side pockets, then within the seats. More nada. I took up the floor mats, back and front, shook out the dogs’ blankets and went through the pages of the books lying on the floor. Even more nada.

So next it was the house. Without boring you with the details, I’ll just say I checked every nook and cranny. And then re-checked ’em. And still came up empty.

I took a break, sat down, and thought about where the check could be. And suddenly, an image came popped in my addled brain: I recalled — though only vaguely — at some point over the weekend I’d folded up ther check and put in a pocket. As I said, the memory was only vague, but at that point vague was better than nothing, so I embarked on a pocket perusal.

First on my search was my vests. Next was my jackets. Then I looked through the shirts I’d worn since Friday, and after that the pants. And when I was done with that, I was no farther ahead than when I’d begun.

So I did the only thing I could — I admitted defeat.

I’d have to call the company, let them know I was such a spaceshot that in the course of three days I’d managed to lose their check. And then, sounding like the shmendrick I knew I was, I’d have to beg ’em to cancel the old check and reissue a new one.

But before I called, I decided take a break and relax by practicing a new coin trick I’d been working on. So I reached in my pants pocket for the silver dollar I always carry, when my fingers hit a piece of paper.

How weird, I thought, since I never carry paper in that pocket — only my silver dollar.

I pulled out the paper and as sure as God makes little green apples, big red ones, and medium-size green ones, it was my annuity check!

I immediately hopped in my car and tore off directly to the credit union before there was even a sliver of a chance I could again misplace it.

So did I feel foolish I’d lost track of the check, wasted all sorts of time and energy looking for it in all the wrong places, and had, for the first time in my long life, wrongly cursed the federal government?

Not at all.

Listen: I was so happy I’d found it, I couldn’t have cared less about what preceded it. Rather than it having been a hassle, to me it was a great triumph.

Plus, it reminded me of a joke.

An old man is in the doctor’s office.

“So what’s the problem?” says the doctor.

“I can’t hear outta my right ear,” says the old guy.

The doctor take his penlight, looks in the guy’s ear and sees something. He gets tweezers, removes it, and checks it out. Shocked, he says, “You had a suppository in your ear.”

“Wonderful!” the old guy shouts.

“How can that be wonderful?” says the doctor.

“Because,” says the old guy, “Now I know where I put my hearing aid.”