In the grand scheme of world events, a new desk might not exactly qualify as breaking news. CNN has yet to knock on my door. But here at farm HQ, where paperwork mysteriously multiplies like unchaperoned rabbits, this is front-page material. See, I’m the one who handles all things paper—bills, tax stuff, registration forms, insurance documents, and mysterious receipts that no one remembers making but are somehow vital. So while the rest of the world carries on, I’ve been waging a one-woman war against chaos armed with nothing but a file cabinet and a slab of particle board.
For years I’ve managed with “alternative workspaces”—a term I use to make it sound fancier than it is. I've used the dining table, an old TV tray, a bookshelf turned sideways, and once, for a brief and dark period, a collapsible card table that had a distinct wobble and smelled faintly of basement. If it had a flat surface, I’ve tried to make it work. Because let’s be honest—desks are expensive, and why buy one when you can make one out of scraps and imagination?
But lately, my trusty little setup—lovingly referred to as "The FrankenDesk"—has started to feel more like a junk drawer with Wi-Fi. Picture a narrow slab of wood spanning a file cabinet on one end and an old cupboard on the other, with a printer perched on top like a gargoyle watching over a nest of tangled cords. It was functional, sure, but about as inspiring as a DMV waiting room.
So I did it. I took the plunge. I went desk shopping.
Friends, nothing could have prepared me.
I walked into the furniture store expecting maybe five options. Instead, I was met with a sea of desks: flattops, rolltops, glass-tops, desks shaped like executive battle stations, and desks so small they’d make a Barbie dream house look spacious. Some had drawers. Some had secret compartments. Some looked like they required an engineering degree and an allen wrench to assemble. And the price tags? Let’s just say there were a few where I had to sit down on the showroom couch and breathe into a paper bag.
The sales lady, God bless her, saw the panic in my eyes and gently offered to copy some catalog pages for me. "Take them home," she said, "live with them a while." Like stray kittens or paint samples. And so I did.
I spent the next two days living with pictures of desks taped to the wall. Measuring. Squinting. Imagining. Muttering things like “Would I regret going with Mission Oak?” and “Does this drawer configuration speak to my soul?”
Finally, I found the one. A beautiful rolltop. She’s a classic—rich wood tone, drawers galore, and a soul steeped in old-school charm. The top is full of little cubbies and drawers perfect for organizing paper clips, push pins, stamps, sticky notes, flash drives, old birthday cards, dried-up pens I can’t bring myself to toss, and at least four pairs of scissors that will still go mysteriously missing. And the best part? When the clutter starts to take over (because let’s be honest, it will), I can just roll down the top and—voilà—instant respectability. It’s the adult version of shoving everything under the bed when company comes.
Of course, now that I have a new desk, the wall behind it needs repainting. I mean, obviously. You can’t just slap a shiny new piece of furniture in front of faded old paint—it’s like wearing a ball gown with barn boots. Which means the whole living/dining/home-office multipurpose room needs painting. And if that room gets a facelift, well, the adjoining room is going to start feeling a little left out…
It’s like home renovation dominoes. You knock one over and suddenly you’re pricing curtains and considering crown molding.
But that’s a project for another day. Today I sit at my glorious new desk, sipping hot chocolate, surrounded by drawers that glide smoothly and a surface free of paper towers. It’s not world-changing. But for me, it’s a little island of order in a sea of daily farm-life chaos.
Sure, she’s old-fashioned, but so am I—and with all her tiny drawers and the ability to roll down the front and hide my inevitable mess, she’s basically the desk version of Spanx. And that, my friends, is priceless.
