I Have A Desk

I have a desk, which means I have a clean house. Ha, I know this doesn’t make sense, but trust me, it will.

See, prior to this weekend, I’ve done all my writing and paperwork from the dining room table. It was a nice place to work with lots of space to spread out and a set of French doors to look outside. But it’s also where we eat every night, and so anything I put on the table had to be moved constantly. And there is no way I can write there with other people around because it’s too distracting. Plus, there was no place to keep my stuff.

I kept piles of my papers in the kitchen on the counter and in letterboxes there as well. While I’d love to be a super-organized person with everything filed neatly away, I’m not. If I file something away, I forget about it. So my organization consists of piles—a “to-do this week” pile, a “to-do today” pile and a “to-do soon” pile. It’s not a bad system for me, since it works, but it made my kitchen counter messy.

Then there were the files. Despite my not being a “math person,” I’m the one who handles investments and taxes in my family—don’t knock it; I get us nice sized refunds every single year! My files for this were in the office. The office is my husband’s man-cave. It’s dominated by a roll-top desk big enough for me to sleep in (seriously), decorated with antique maps, Phillies baseball stuff and Star Wars paraphernalia. The desk is his. He does not like piles. He does not like my system of organization. So he gave me a stack of letterboxes to keep things in. I put one or two items in each box and promptly forgot about them. I made a small stack of things I need and tried to hide it in the corner.

I never go in there. It’s dark and cold. The heat continuously blasts cold air and frankly, I’ve been too lazy to call the heating people. The office chair was uncomfortable, so my husband bought a new one, but I still avoid the place if possible.

I finally got around to complaining. Sure, it’s his office, but I’m the one who works from home. It didn’t make sense to me why we’d set it up that way. So, my husband suggested we make me my own office—after finding out all the reasons why I don’t like his.

We bought a huge desk. I love it. It’s solid. It’s got drawers. It’s mine. And it came in a flat box with a gazillion pieces. Trust me, I counted. But I am woman and I decided I could assemble it myself (with some help from quickly disinterested children). My husband said okay and wisely stayed out of the way.

It took me two days and a reorder of some hardware (I ran out of the correct screws since I mistakenly used them somewhere else), but I made it! It’s big. It’s solid. It’s got drawers. And when I put things in it, on it and sit at it, it does not fall apart! Ha!

I’m almost finished cleaning out the dining room. It now looks like someplace where we eat. I cleaned out my stuff from the kitchen. I now have counter space. I pulled out my files from the office. I hardly have to go in there anymore.

As I said before, I have a desk, which means I have a clean house.

Oh, by the way, I’m writing this from the living room sofa! Some things never change.