Partially broken CD cases reach up toward the ceiling like the leaning tower of Pisa times five � 5000 glossy paper faces stare out from the walls. Whirring fan blades keep watch over an unmade bed and its surrounding fortress of clothing - a chaotic mass that could pass as modern art at the Smithsonian. In the middle of it all, the maker of this artwork reclines, while the mistress of the household looks on with a mixture of repulsion and resignation.

There are few things that my mother and I clash over as much as the dilemma of bedroom cleanliness. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I am a burrowing rodent far removed from godhood. Granted, it does get annoying to plow through a two-foot-high pile of clothing in search of a certain shirt among a mass of other fabric; still, my mother tends to put too high a value on room spotlessness.

No matter where one�s clothing is located, the aggravation remains that too much matter exists in too little a space. So while drawers and hangers have their charm, the truth is that the floor is the largest shelf in the house. And if you�ve worn the clothes you�re looking for within the past few months, you know it�s got to be SOMEWHERE on the floor. Besides, it won�t matter if your clothes aren�t cool enough to come wrinkled, like at Abercrombie & Fitch � because if they weren�t wrinkled before, they are now!

However, there is nothing quite like the pleasure of browsing through one�s closet and knowing �Yes, I�m not missing out and forgetting to wear a random shirt that got shoved into a distant corner months ago.� Even I, the queen of messiness with a tendency of breaking hangers by stepping on them, know that sometimes a clean room is downright necessary. When you can�t open your closet door � or the only spot of carpet showing is a narrow strip from the door to the bed � you know something has to be done.

But, much to my mother�s chagrin, I will not clean my room at her command � unless, of course, she threatens to withhold the car keys. Indeed, I have to be utterly bored and in dire need of clothing to do so of my own volition. And then it turns into a week long activity � picking up clothes, organizing books, dusting shelves and assorted doodads, reorganizing my desk-permanently-turned-shelf, doing four loads of laundry (high priority dark colors, high priority light colors, dark colors that can wait for another year, light colors that can wait for another year), and fiddling around with all the cool stuff I�ve discovered � a tendency that hasn�t changed since when I was little and would become absorbed in playing with the toys I was supposed to be picking up.

I suppose one might think, by observing my room, that I am utterly careless and irresponsible. And I suppose that my mother could be scared that I will not turn into a valuable, clean-roomed citizen. But my sister was � and is � much the same way (sometimes I wonder how she finds a spot to sleep in the mass abyss that is her room), and she cares enough about the world to run for city council in her town and champion environmental protection. She also plans to be an English teacher, and I�m sure that few teachers could be more eager to pass on the wonderful world of Steinbeck and Dickens and Voltaire.

So see, Mother? No worries � I will be a conscientious citizen with the rest of them. I will rise above the supposed shackles of my slovenly abode and be someone you�ll be proud of. In the meantime, well � my last two weeks of clothing are arranged across my bedroom carpet, and who knows when they�ll make their way to the closet.

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