Greetings from Bedlam!
Last Friday, I decided to buy new office furniture. Nothing wrong with that decision except:
I have to get rid of old office furniture which means
I have to empty all furniture and find some place to store all the junk that comes out of furniture--CD blanks, software, paper, envelopes, boxes of labels, hanging files, etc.
then I have to disconnect computer and find some new place to reconnect computer.
Then of course I decided that since I had to do all that, I might as well do something I'd been wanting to do for a year--paint the office. Right now, my office is a color called Rosemary Green. Sounds nice and when I first painted it, I found the color different and energizing. For the last year though, I look at the walls--what little of wall surface can be seen above a bank of file cabinets, computer furniture, framed book covers, and such--and find them to be the exact shade of split pea soup. Now, that green is not the color of renewal. It just looks tired and vaguely weird. What was I thinking?
So I tackled the project last Friday, was without computer through the weekend, and now have the computer reconnected on a folding table in the office. Supplies and other junk are in cardboard boxes stacked under the folding table.
The truly depressing part of this little tale is that I can't get the office put back together with newly painted walls and new furniture until I finish the manuscript I'm writing. I promised DH I wouldn't paint until I finished writing. He's tired of hearing me talk about this story and the characters, and he knows he'll have no peace until I get it finished and out of my system. Then I can go back to being a normal person. For a while until the next story seduces me.
So paint comes after writing is finished. By that time, the new furniture should have arrived since it's on order.
I wish I could be the recipient of one of those makeover shows where a crew of forty comes in, moves everything out, transforms my office to something worthy of being seen on television, gives me all new everything, including a plasma TV the size of Portugal, then gives me a check for a hundred grand to cover my expenses until I get a publishing contract that would put me on EZ street.
Oh, well, a girl (writer) can dream, can't she?