I have a new place to work - at long last, my countertop made it out of the dining room and up the back stairs. (It's only been working its way in that direction since some time in the summer. Any longer and evolution might have taken over and it could have walked up on its own.
It's funny, this change has been in my mind for so long that once it was finally in place, it was no big deal. I'd been seeing it for so long that the reality was just . . . there, and why wasn't it ready to be used?
I pushed a few more things out of the way, picked up the coverstitch and the Juki and put them where I could actually use them without having to rearrange the cutting and ironing areas.
The cutting and ironing areas have now actually achieved their own sections of the table, the Singer I use most of the time (I don't know why, but it's still my favorite) is at the near end of the table and the vintage Singer with the buttonholer is at the far end.
Ah, organization. Yes, I'll be able to trash this room within an hour if I'm working on a project, but that's not the point. The more places I have to store things, the easier it will be to reassemble from a trashing. I don't promise neatness; I do, at least, like to put things back in order almost as much as I like taking them apart.
Though for some reason all this organization reminds me of an embarrassing incident from my childhood. I couldn't have been more than 5. My parents usually dropped me off at my grandmom's on Sunday mornings and I would spend the day with her and my aunt. My parents either got some alone time, or my dad went to work and mom caught up on her reading, and occasionally did house things.
On this particular Sunday, she apparently decided she could no longer take the trashed state of my playroom. (I was a spoiled brat, and the small third bedroom was my playroom, at least until my aunt moved in 2 years later and I had to downgrade to only enough toys for 3 kids). I came home in the afternoon to a room absolutely frightening in its neatness - toys on shelves, toys in boxes, all the furniture in the wrong places in the dollhouse, Barbies lined up like soldiers against the wall, their houses and ski lodge and cafe and boutique and camper all folded and stacked in a corner.
I went insane, to put it mildly. The kid who never said boo, who never misbehaved, turned into a whirling dervish and tore everything down that I could reach, upended all the boxes, turned the dollhouse inside out and stacked the Barbies up like Lincoln logs. I can't explain it even now, I just saw all my glorious stuff, handled by someone who didn't understand, and I had to touch all of it, right then.
After I tore it all down and my mom screamed (and then went out in the hallway and laughed until she slid down the wall), I very quietly put it all away again. Where I wanted it.
I guess maybe I haven't changed all that much.