Space thievery

When we moved in to the new house nearly a year ago I staked out an ideal spot for my crafting table. A nice spot in the family room, away from the hubbub of two kids, a husband, two dogs, three cats and a pair of noisy 'keets with a delicious view of the back pasture and thick wooded area of our property. But still close enough that I could hear the girls and be ready to jump to action should they start Sister Wars III in the living room.

I loved my new crafty area a great deal and spent many an hour there diligently filling scrapbook pages with fabulous photos. I had loads of room on my very own table, in my very own space to spread out and design without worrying about having to clean everything up afterwards. Previously I'd always used the kitchen table and had to pack up my stuff at the end of it all. Ever have a creative kid find your gel pens, adhesive spray, over-priced stickers and funky-patterned scissors when you weren't looking? Now that's a mess to clean up! Before the kitchen table I was sequestered to a table in a seldom-used, dark, dingy little dungeon-like room that did nothing to inspire happy scrapbook pages. Pages created during that era have a distinctly dark and gothic look to them.

So, I was happy in my new crafty zone. My space was happy. I could watch the birds and the clouds and throw open the windows and smell the honeysuckle and listen to the outside noises. I could see the horse in the pasture or the chickens pecking around for bugs. My scrapbook was slowly being filled with pages of fantastic photo designs.

I haven't designed a page since November. Seriously.

My space is gone. My husband stole my space. STOLE IT!!!! The shameless thief.

Where once my pens and scissors, papers and stickers waited eagerly for me now sits a lunky, junky, dusty, gigantic piece-o-crap computer and hulking monitor. That never gets turned on. That hasn't been upgraded in almost 8 years. It's just taking up space as a piece of useless dust-gathering detritus. I'm tempted to toss it out the window. But, you don't know my husband. There MIGHT be a piece of something useable in that hunk of junk. A card. A board. A circuit. A screw. A cable. Something else to toss in the Great Big Box of Worthless Computer Crap That He Hasn't Touched In 10 Years But Has To Keep Anyway, Just In Case.

I've asked. I've begged. I've pleaded and threatened. And yet still it sits. In my space. My zone.

I miss my space. Tremendously.