Back on the wagon

Paddy and I have renewed our vows. Not our actual wedding vows; those oughtta last a few more weeks at least. Rather, we have renewed our commitment to our house.

Buying a fixer-upper always sounds like so much fun. And I guess it is, when it comes down to it. It's down right exhausting, though, and I guess that explains why so few of our new switches and plugs have the plates on them to finish the job.

That is, until last weekend. That's when I not only attached plates with unabashed joy, but also busted out the spray paint and the drill and went to work on the outside of the ol' abode. Behold the improvements:

The old mailbox. Cute emblem, huh?

Vwalah! I ripped off the decoration myself and gave the whole thing a fresh coat of spray paint. Kindly ignore the small blemish where I tried to patch the hole left by the aforementioned decoration. I'm learning.

I am without words. These are, without question, the most atrocious house numbers that have ever been attached to brick. I wish you could have seen the whole contraption in all it's glory on the house, but as it turns out, I am a little squeamish about strangers knowing my house address.

Look at thes numbers! Look how pretty and easy to read from the street! You should have seen the look of pride on my dear Daddy-o's face when he saw his little girl could use a drill. Don't worry, I lined them up first.

(Disclaimer: a total of 2 screws may have been stripped during drill-use. Don't worry. I'm a problem solver.)

It's not so much that the light was hideous, but now that everything else was a clean, even black, it just looked silly.


I don't mess with wires. They're scary. My daddy, who is normally Executive in Charge of Coming to My Rescue, was swamped with High Council-ish things, and I don't wait well. Solution? Tape a bunch of newspaper to the brick and spray paint it while it's still mounted to the wall. Oh yeah.

Now if I could only fold all my laundry.