Workspace

WRITING PROMPT from Writer's Digest:
Describe your workspace in vivid detail. What items are on your desk? What pictures do you have on the walls? What does your trash can look like?

My workspace today? Can't seem to find it. It was buried in the corner of my little bedroom in my little two bedroom apartment. Now it's buried under a heap of boxes behind bigger heaps of red hat regalia.

Why? Cause I'm moving. Moving back into the big house. Well it's not exactly a "big" house but there is a tiny little den just off the kitchen, within reach of the all important coffee pot, where I'll figure out how to place two desks (one for business, one for play), file cabinets, shelves and maybe even a chair.

Pictures on walls? no... shelves on walls; shelves full of genealogy, books about writing (maybe I'd write more if I quit reading about how to write), and one clear spot for Miss Minnie Poopalot's observation deck.

Items on desk? There is a computer, two printers and a fax machine buried under the propagation of office supplies that are supposed to be stuffed away in the desk drawers.

Trash can? Uh...Maybe Miss Minnie Poopalot will leave me some real estate in that giant litter box in the corner by the sliding glass door.

My suggestion for the next writing prompt: Describe what's in your drawers. Just kidding. Not going there. Going out to container store for clutter control bins and baskets. Why the heck did I move all this stuff anyway?

Poop Prizes and Stuff

Taking a break from packing boxes upon boxes (amazing what one can accumulate in five years even in a small apartment), today was the annual Victorian Afternoon Tea. I held the lucky raffle ticket today winning a huge basket of little boy toys. It couldn't have happened at a more opportune time... time to instigate a new toilet training strategy in hopes of awarding daily "poop" prizes. When all else fails one must sometimes resort to pure bribery.

Not to bore anyone with more tales of a three and a half year old but get this... hubby takes kid to park. Kid doesn't want to leave. Hubby grabs kicking and screaming kid and wrestles his way into the car seat. Drives home. Goes to a party. Returns 4 hours later to find cops knocking on door. It seems two people reported a possible child abduction. They were quick to give the details including my personalized license plate (thank god there wasn't an Amber alert or this RHS Moll might have had some serious explaining to do). Well I am glad to see people are looking out for the welfare of our children. BUT my question is... how safe are our children if it takes 4 hours to check out grandpa?

Upside Down

Dinner at the Moraccon restaurant with a three and a half year old can be amusing. After experiencing the hand washing ritual, eating with fingers, and observing the belly dancer behind crossed fingers, little J's comment... "why is this place built upside down?" hmmmmm