You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. Please remember to wipe your feet – on the way out.
HEEllis recently treated us to some photos of her pristine, well-organized office. If she weren’t a great little writer, (double accent on little) and the second nicest person in the world, right behind me, I might think that a neat, clean office is a sign of a diseased mind. (Could still be right.) 😯
I recently stepped into my office to begin a post, this one as it turns out, and looked at my private pigsty. The wife has given up on it. I am only visited by wild animals. It started life as a small, third bedroom, and has devolved into the recent cover photo of Mess & Clutter Magazine. Work in there?? I don’t know how I even think in there!
This is a craft table, which can’t be accessed, because it is topped with two thrones of the Alien Overlords who rule me. Oh look, one of them has beamed in.
Many of my ideas do not work out, and much note paper is thrown out. I really need the cute garbage pail the son produced at his plastic parts plant.
A paperless society, indeed.
This is where neurons flux, and ideas flow – when I get back with a sandwich. You may have noticed, I file by the sedimentation system. Oldest papers on the bottom.
When I can’t convince a cat to vacate my Captain’s Chair, I sit in the Navigator’s Chair. It affords an alternate viewpoint, which I have to share with dirty laundry.
Just a little business humor – which sadly has carried over to blog themes.
There’s a floor down there somewhere, shared by a sewing machine and hassock, and a crosscut shredder to guarantee destruction of any documents with names and addresses. Hoodoo, voodoo, identity thieves.
The wife’s hand-tatted lace doily, made from bequeathed crochet cotton that her aunt bought, along with the antique pattern it was made to, in the 1940s.
One of Granma Ladybug’s ladybugs clinging to the wall, beside a shadowbox full of visual drivel.
A couple of her stuffed mascots, guarding wheat bags which are heated in the microwave, to ease arthritis pains.
Maybe not a typical man-cave, but I’ve taken it and made it mine a mess. Perhaps you can now understand the strange and varied mix that gets spewed onto my blog-site.
Archon's Den 