I used to enjoy all those crime scene investigations shows. Then I got scared.

“What,” I quaked, “would they find if they ever went over my place with fine-toothed rubber gloves and those funky, blue flashlights?”

It’s not that I have anything to hide. Well, actually, I do. And that’s the problem.

On those shows, the vital clue to locate a missing person is found in single snippet of fiber out of place on an otherwise clean carpet.

I’ve looked at my carpet and there’s no way they would know WHICH out-of-place fiber contained the clue. There are too many out-of-place fibers, newspapers, candy wrappers, socks, automotive parts and small, third-world countries already littered about my carpet. By the time they found the clue, I would have starved to death.

How come TV homes provide such a perfect palette for all-important clues? Could they find the evidence in my mess? Worse, what will they find besides evidence?

I haven’t put laundry away in months. I simply dump the dryer into my clothesbaskets, which I leave at the foot of my bed. When company’s coming, part of “cleaning the house” is draping a comforter I’ve yet to put away overtop the baskets.

But CSI guys would pull away the comforter, see the unfolded laundry beneath and call my mom, who would swear she taught me better than that.

In some shows, investigators tell how long a person’s been gone by the dishes in the sink.

I live alone and don’t see the need to wash a single table serving after every meal. This could give some misleading clues:

“Well, Joe, judging by the number of pans, plates and glasses in the sink, I’d say he had a banquet just before he went missing. Round up all the guests and see what they know.”

By the time they figure out it was just me, the bad guys will have gone.

I’ve also learned by watching detective shows not keep any embarrassing magazines hidden beneath the mattress. After watching CSI shows, I scoured all the hidey-holes in my house for fear of what might be found and displayed to my horrified family in the case of my untimely demise:

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but we found these stashed behind the dresser in your dad’s bedroom.”

“Gasp! Not ‘Scrapbook Monthly.’ And ‘Health Food Journal’? No!”

“I’m afraid it gets worse, ma’am. We found these hidden in the back of the closet.”

“What! I’ve heard whisperings but I didn’t think it was true. But here’s the evidence. Dad really DID wear traffic-light green bell bottoms in high school! And he kept them!”

“But these are nice looking zebras and giraffes on this polyester shirt your father stashed beneath the white shoes under the bed sheets.”

“Aurgh! If he weren’t already gone, I’d disown him! Please, lieutenant, you must clear his name. No, wait, clear mine!”

In case something happens to me, I’d like to say right now, I have no idea who broke into my house and sneaked those Yanni albums into my collection.