House, Warmed.

Over the weekend, the fruits of our basement redo labor culminated with a gathering of some of our dear friends.

That's the most simplistic way of saying... we all got real tore up on Saturday night. 

Chris and I have spent the last seven weeks coming home from work, shoveling pizza or turkey sammiches down our throats, then changing into raggedy old clothes for as many hours of DIY fun as we could muster. It all began with a little paint, which wasn't a little so much as it was 6 gallons of Kilz primer, 4 gallons of Benjamin Moore Natura paint (no VOC, thankyouverymuch), and a gallon of Ben's very amazing trim paint in a luscious, satiny Decorator's White.

More on the deets of that later.

DIY is hard, you guys. And not because painting takes much talent, but because it's hard to come home and work after work and work with someone that has very different design opinions and methods of attack than yourself. There were moments in which tile chipped, door hinges wouldn't budge and I could have thrown a trowel at Chris' head and stomped off in a fury of SHUT UP AND JUST LISTEN TO ME rage. My mantra for each one of those moments was do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy? 


Because without hesitation, I fully admit that each time something went wrong, I was mumbling "I told you so" in my head.

We made it though. We made it through a giant project during a stressful time and still, for the most part, liked each other at the conclusion of each week.

So we decided to celebrate. Chris suggested having a few friends over for a few drinks and I took his words at face value. I invited a few friends then he handed me his guest list and revealed that his idea of a few was more along the lines of 30 or 40. Okay, so, a few turned into a few dozen which turned into a keg and a week's worth of baking and cooking in anticipation and self-imposed anguish over I MUST IMPRESS PEOPLE WITH MY DOMESTIC TALENTS!

And that was entirely moronic because people that are drinking beer like dehydrated camels couldn't give half of a shit about my made from scratch maple cupcakes or the pumpkin donuts I packaged myself for Take & Enjoy In the Morning purposes.

We awoke yesterday amidst a small sea of partiers that had slept on the couches, in the spare bedroom, and... the porch! On a November night in Minnesota. Two of them, peacefully enjoying respite from the looming threat of a hangover on a porch that couldn't possibly have been more than 35 degrees.

Hardcore, those two!

It took three trips to the curb this morning to clear out the VFW stench in our basement. Whew, so glad we spent nearly two months getting it ready to be trashed! The empty keg, champagne corks scattered on the floor, sticky spots where people spilled shot glasses full of tequila and pink vodka. Yesterday was a day full of napping and popping Advil: with the exception of one mixed drink over the summer, I haven't touched hard alcohol since last March. Not because there was an issue, but simply because my Creeping Up On 30 body couldn't handle it anymore. It was one of the most SO TOTALLY WORTH IT hangovers I have ever endured.

Thank you to everyone that helped us get the house ready. Thank you to everyone that took our phone calls when we wanted to claw one another's eyes out. And thank you to our friends-- many of whom drove from the other side of the river, found babysitters for their children, and some that even had to work the next morning-- that came over with not only thoughtful gifts, but with huge smiles and good cheer.

Both our house and our hearts are warmed (and still palpitating a bit, ahem, TEQUILA) over the kindness and generosity of your friendship.

XO

Holla!

A big shout out to the lovely folks who joined us over the course of the past ten days. It has been a helluva ride, huh?! 

We kicked off the move by throwing our brand new gray sofa over a bannister at the old house. And when that didn't give us enough titillation before noon time, we threw an 8' tall armoire over the back deck rails. Neighbors stood on their own decks and watched in both shock and awe: will they drop it? Will it break? Will it drop and break them in half? 

Hysteria followed by raucous applause and congratulations. Just the way I like to kick off a Friday morning! 

We pulled into the new driveway with our entourage of family members and a moving truck too tall to fit up the driveway. Meaning, our wooded lot with fantastically mature trees was about to take a beating. After a couple of hours of unloading from the END of the driveway, my mom and I were both paralyzed by the sound of a chainsaw. I looked outside only to find my father standing atop the moving truck, slicing limb after branch after tree. Thank Jeebus our neighbors are not arborists. Or people who scoff at new neighbors moving in, cutting down trees, and swarming the neighborhood with rowdy, Coors Light fueled hooligans. 

But nothing can be as fantastic as moving into a new home with brand spanking new wood floors. Because that, my Intraweb friends and followers, is a real bitch of a job. The floors made it through the move relatively unscathed. Although, the front entryway did take a few dings and there are trace amounts of furniture varnish mysteriously smudged across the white walls and ceiling. In more than several places. 

We did it though. We moved in. We drank beer. We ate pizza for so many consecutive nights that I will claw the eyes out of anyone who dares mention words like "mozzarella" or "marinara" anytime soon. The boxes were not even unpacked before we took a hammer and a paintbrush to our first Reno project. I figured the 1950s vintage (read: horrid) kitchen would be the first project, but what a fool am I! Such thinking would be entirely to rational for Chris and myself. 

So without further ado, I give you Plumage House's first DIY. 

You expected more, didn't you?

Fine, fine. Stay tuned for the pictures of the actual project. Because Comcast is the only bitch bigger than wood floors on moving day and my Internet at home is yet to be connected. BUT REST ASSURED, Kilz is the word around our house and Kilz'ing the bananas out of our wood paneled, 1975 VFW basement is the name of the game.