Are you talking to me? Are you asking what my ribbons, yo-yos and dental floss have in common?

They are all knotted together in the same drawer in a dwelling known as the Marshall’s Fibber and McGee manor.

While I have a place for everything, I do not really know where that place is. Whenever I need to find a household item, I do a Google search but never get an answer. Even Siri, my iPhone assistant, refuses to find my stuff though I graciously loaned her my magic moisturizer SPF 80.

I long for a day when every item in the universe has its own beeper that I can click on to appear in the room that I happen to be in.

When I do find something that looks familiar, I am clueless to what it is for. Though on the coldest day of winter, when the heater key was missing, I could remember that item but not where I put it. Then I’d sing the words to the movie “Frozen” and voila, I’d find it.

I truly love order. I crave it. But while everyone talks about organizing for spring, nobody mentions the alien Martian devils that come through Gate 1, directly to my doors in the dark of night, sneak in and throw assorted documents around my place.

A magazine survey asked women how they felt about housework. The majority said, “Bleckkk!” The others were too weak from laughter to respond. Straightening up is like putting beads on a string without a knot at the end — it is an endless job.

So in order to get through maintaining my mansion, I developed a timeless, stress-relieving, reframing technique. I hypnotize myself to believe that my home is a museum, therefore I need to leave everything out for display for the paying public.

To the perfectionists who continue to judge, what about this kindhearted excuse — I mean explanation: Papers piled high, documents hither and yon, scattered clothing and topless jars being sorted to send to the poor people who lost everything playing bridge and Wordle. What can I do? My legal name is Joan of Arc.

Please address your thank you notes to Saint Jan.

Oh, may I suggest the next time you visit me, forget the hostess gift; instead please bring me a pair of thigh-high boots. It’s a just a silly health department thing. But really, bring it!

Humorologist Jan Marshall, a Village resident, is author of satirical survival books, including “Dancin’ Schmancin’ with the Scars. Finding the Humor No Matter What!” Jan also has written aspirational books for children, “The Littlest Hero” and “The Toothbrush Who Tried to Run Away.”