Next on Hoarders

I once again have an overwhelming urge to have a dedicated studio space.  There are a few problems with this.  The best room for me to use is the guest bedroom.  In fact, it currently has a bunch of my art supplies, a folding table acting as a desk and the broken sewing machine from the last time I decided that I would use it as a studio.  Aside from the so called useful things, like a bed, desk and night stands it's also crammed with an ungodly amount of crap that's accumulated over the years.  Because the Boyfriend and I are both packrats with no real organizational skills.  One a scale of one to exploded meth lab it's about at 'livable crack den.'

That's an unholy amount of stuff.

I can't blame you for judging me for my serious lack of housekeeping skills.  I will ask you not to tell me about how much of an unbelievable slob I am, I'm very sensitive.  So, going through it all, throwing things out (always so difficult for me- what if I need those half finished notebooks at some point?) and organizing the things that remain more effectively than my current system of 'stacks of semi-related stuff' will be more than slightly challenging.

Aside from the desperately overdue spring cleaning there's a problem with the room itself.  The reason why it didn't work out as a studio the first time and therefore became a repository for boxes of random crap and unused furniture is because I find the large picture window incredibly creepy.

As an incurable night owl, I do most of my work at night.  But I'm afraid of the dark.  Especially dark windows.  Especially this window:

HATE

A few years ago the Boyfriend and I redid the floors in the guest bedroom and gave it a much needed fresh coat of paint.  One night I was in there by myself painting trim with the window open to keep from getting too high from the fumes.  Unbeknownst to me, the Boyfriend's cat Tigger, who never goes outside and I'm convinced hates me with the fires of a thousand suns, had wandered out onto the eave just outside the window. 

Rather than doing something sensible like calmly and quietly walking through the open window when she wanted to come back inside, she came flying out of the night with a squawk and gave me about seventeen and a half heart attacks (I can't be sure, it was hard to count) then trotted off wondering why the new girl was such a weirdo.  There may have been some nonchalant butt-licking, I don't remember.

I'm hoping with some ridiculously cheery curtains that actually fit (as opposed to the last set, which is why it's currently uncovered)  I'll be able to use it.  At the very least I'll have a place to put up guests again and I suppose that's nice.

Still, I can't help but feel that my cleaning efforts will end up something like this:

Tell Mater I loved her.

On the plus side, if I die in a landslide of accumulated bits and bobs I won't have to clean ever again.