At times like these an organized person is grateful for his meticulous ways. He pulls out his "Car" Pendaflex in his little file cabinet, looks up the information on the vehicle, and calls the police. Unfortunately, I am not that person.

"License plate number?" the woman asked in her monotone at the other end of the line.

I have a Pendaflex labeled "Car," but it seemed to have nothing in it of relevance.

"Uhm, I don't … let's see … is this it? No, it's … . I, uh, don't know it," I said, finally.

"VIN number?"

"Uh, ya know … I … it's …"

"Make and model and color of the car."

Finally, one I could answer.

"1996 Chrysler Sebring convertible. Dark green, some call it a forest green, although I think it's more kind of that emerald you see in some lakes in the evening."

"Green," she said.

"Uhm, yes, green. With a tan roof, top … tan roof … top."

She ran my name and the comprehensive information I provided through a computer and informed me of my license plate and vehicle identification numbers.

"Hold, please," she said.

A different woman came on the line who recited the information and asked if it was correct. Yes, I said.

"You should hear from an officer in three to four working days," she said.

Three to four working days? I think it's the police department's way of saying, "There is no way on earth that you are ever going to see this car again."

I called my insurance company.

"Oh, you poor thing," said the woman on the other end of the line.