Get the H out of my office

Now if this was my office...

For the last couple of weeks, I haven’t worked out of my office. I was out of town and then I was under the weather, so I worked out of my bed. Or the couch. But mostly the bed. But last night, feeling significantly better, I decided to go into my office.

People, it was not pretty.

I didn’t have the heart to take a picture of it to show you.

Well, it wasn’t that I didn’t have the heart so much as I was pissed.

So I cleaned out all of the stuff that wasn’t mine that somehow made it onto my desk and floor, the mail that had been dumped in there, the vacuum cleaner that does not seem to have been used anywhere else in the house OR in my office for that matter, and the garbage can which I’m not putting back in there so that nobody has ANY reason to go into my office to dump stuff, but I left the portable air conditioner because I’ll probably want that sucker and because I’m not quite 100% and I don’t think I can move it on my own.

It was still a mess. But at least I could see the floor and the top of my desk.

After I did that preliminary cleaning, I went downstairs and informed my dear husband, “Please don’t put anything in my office unless you ask me first.”

He seemed taken aback, tucked his chin down, and said, “Oh really?”

I replied. “Yes. I just said that.”

Because I realize that if I don’t demand respect for my working space, I won’t get it. Not because my family is insensitive, or they don’t care about my career, but because I’m the MOM and as the MOM, I tend to be available for any and everything, and so my office space is seen as an extension of me… a place that’s available for any and everything. And it’s not that I want to bar my family from my working space, but I kind of want to bar my family from my working space! Particularly if they’re just going to dump stuff in there.

I mean, seriously.

Get the H out of my office.

[Official White House photo by Pete Souza.]

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