(No reference to Michael Scott.)
I had some unorthodox ideas last night, and they were of the sudden, not-well-thought-out variety that always take me by surprise. They're the ones you act on before you're even aware of it. Like changing the living room around, even though you know the whole place works best when it's set up exactly the way it is. You've probably even tried the furniture in the "new" configuration before, only to find it sucked because no one could see the television from the "improved" vantage point of the couch, but you did it anyway. Those ideas. The ones no one can talk you out of, because you just have to see it for yourself.
In a matter of three minutes, I talked myself into moving the desk from the kitchen, creating an office out of the kids' playroom. This idea has merit--it's been done before--but we'll get back to that in a minute. The next idea which followed in a logical sequence was then to move the dining room table into the kitchen, creating an eat-in area and freeing up the dining room. The pinnacle of the "great idea train" then involved creating a playroom in the dining room, using some shelving and storage bins for the kids' toys.
Let me try that again: :-D
Yeah, that was my husband's reaction, too. For the first time in our marriage, I may have found myself regretting the fact that I told him about my idea rather than just doing it like I always do.
And need I remind you of what happened the last time I had an office? Let me walk you through it.
I had an office. Bookshelves, desk, computer, painted walls, the whole nine yards. It took me a while to complete it, because my now-husband and I were in the dating stages back then, but I finally got it finished. From the window's vantage point, I took pictures of bluebirds and other assorted wildlife; things I could look at from my desk every day while writing my heart out. I loved that office. Bookshelves to the left of me. Doorway to the right of me. Window right in front of me. Man, I was going to write my novel there. The mojo would hit me every time I crossed the threshold.
Quite possibly as soon as 48 hours after the office was officially completed, my boyfriend swept me off my feet into the bedroom, where unbeknownst to us, the following conversation took place:
"Sperm, meet egg. Egg, meet sperm."
Well, the end to my office, anyway.
Fast-forward a few months and look at "the office." There's a crib, and a changing table. A hanging mobile. The desk has been put out to the roadside curb. The scent of books and paper no longer meet you at the door; you now smell baby powder and a hint of tears. (Mine.)
Fast-fast-faster-forward to today, and the 8-year-old has now moved to the enclosed garage, the baby is in the bigger of the two rooms at the end of the hall, and the ol' office has reverted back to its original form: the playroom.
"Ka is a wheel," Roland would say.
My new/old idea about gaining an office at the end of the hall? We've got that all worked out: when the baby was just 8 weeks old, my husband had his vasectomy. Maybe--just maybe--so I could have my own office someday.
I can see it now: a couple of file cabinets, all of which have been impeccably organized. My new kitchen desk, which I spray-painted a gorgeous shade of oil rubbed bronze. A swivel chair, white or orange, I can take my pick. Some artwork. A couple of plants. Pictures of the family. My printer. A baby gate at the door to keep little paws off my printed stuff.
Once again, the smell of paper and ink.
Now, how to effectively incorporate a playroom into the dining area before taking over the world ...