First, it's really hot. Then, before the sweat can be swept from the brow, in comes the iceberg. Yep. I'm thinking it's time for the Change. Not that change, please. Been there, done that and, thank-goodness it wasn't nearly as bad as puberty or pregnancy.

The change I'm talking about is that seasonal switch thingy. You know that wardrobe switcheroo process that causes laundry baskets of clothing to loiter in the hallway while the keeper of the drawers flips shorts and tank tops from the dresser into another basket.

I blamed my first change-chore on the weatherman. His forecast for nighttime temperatures in the low forties and upper thirties sent me in search of the electric blanket. You'd think that since it took me several years to convince that man-of-mine that it would only be used to warm the sheets to keep our bodies from going into shock when we crawled into bed, I would know exactly where I stored it for the summer. You'd think…but no. My organizational skills are definitely nothing to write home about; and, I probably wouldn't be able to find a pencil and paper to do so anyhow.

During my two-day search for the blanket, I wondered if this semiannual scavenger hunt could become a candidate for some type of geocaching adventure. After finding the blanket, I had to figure out what I did with my winter robe-the one that weighs at least ten pounds but does a marvelous job of keeping me warm if I want to enjoy a steaming cup of morning coffee on the porch swing.

Even though it's just October, I've made some real progress with the change-at least as far as my wardrobe is concerned. Although there are a few sweaters that are still missing, I'm sure they will surface when I dive into the cedar chest, which is where I stash most of the hubby's out-of-season clothing. And, the reason for that is because the cedar chest is situated in front of one of our bedroom windows. Its location is crucial when that man-of-mine throws a temperature tantrum about needing his VT sweatshirt or his flannel loungers on a cool June night.

Unlike my three-day hunt for my huggable wool socks, the hubby wants all of his clothing accessible and at his beckon call. There is no storing his stuff in the plastic bins in the upstairs closets. Nope. Even all of those sweaters and flannel shirts that he never wears must be within an arms reach. And, in the dead of winter, if he decides he wants to slip on a pair of Bermudas, they need to be in his bottom dresser drawer, below the drawer that holds his other kind of drawers.

It's not that he is unreasonable when it comes to the change; it's just that he wants his stuff where he can get to it when it wants it. I figure it's because he never went to Girl Scout Camp, and for that, I am truly thankful. But, there's no doubt about it, Camp Werawanni offered the best ever scavenger hunts.

Early in our marriage, I was dubbed Princess Summerfall Winterspring, a.k.a. the Keeper of the Wardrobe. Although I don't remember vowing to take on that specific chore when I said, “I do,” I guess I did.

As I transfer some of his T-shirts into the cedar chest, I can't help but think about a time many, many years ago when we spent a year in the Southwest, courtesy of Uncle Sam and the Draft. Soldier Boy was stationed at Fort Bliss and for that entire year, the Princess was on hiatus. Aaah yes, the good old days when the change of seasons meant throwing a sweater in the back of our little Triumph convertible, which hardly ever sported its top.

Okay, so snowmen fashioned from tumbleweeds weren't that inspiring. And, I did miss the Four Seasons-even though I never really liked that song telling me that big girls don't cry.

However, no one said big girls couldn't whine, especially when they're making the change. Reckon there's any chance I should try to free up some drawer space by getting rid of a few of those T-shirts? KNOTT MUCH.