Breaking up is hard to do

This week Mrs. Flinger posted a picture of her office. So being the lemming I am (I am not)I decided to do the same (happily I took a photo of my workspace before my camera went caput):



I've been living in this rental for about half a year now. You'd think I would have my shit together by now. I don't. This house is so much smaller than the one we sold I just can't find room for the stuff.

Here's my old living room:



Here's my new one:



And, just for fun, here is my old dining room:



And kitchen nook:


And cooktop:


It's weird to me that someone else is living in that house. I flipping designed it, you know? I spent hours on drawing out everything from the elevation to the cabinetries for the architect. See those glass cabinets at the top of the uppers? That was me. See the various tilework? My designs, my selections. My vision realized.

And the colors...oh, how I loved those colors.

That house was a labor of love, a culmination of years of images ripped from magazines and drawings on napkins. That was the house I thought my children would come home to from college, and where my grandchildren would visit us. Maybe stay with us for a week while their parents, our children, enjoyed a second honeymoon.

And someone else is calling that place THEIRS. I know, they bought it, it IS theirs. It's just hard for me to accept that. The other day my former next door neighbor told me that the new owners just love it. I know she wanted me to know it is loved. Yes, I am glad for that.

But it's like when you break up with someone you care about but know it's not meant to be, and later you spot them with someone else. That punch in the gut feeling, that loss of breath, that lingering longing and feeling of possession. That's how I feel about that house.

But part of it, it's soul, will always be mine. Or maybe what I'm saying, what is really accurate, is that part of my heart will always be there.