How excited are you to see my laundry room? You're SUPER excited, you say?
Have you no life?
If you missed part one, you can see it HERE!
I did things a little bassackwards with this project, in that I showed you part of the finished product prior to demonstrating the carnival of chaos this room once was.
But here's a little glimpse of cuteness before we get to that:
You're in for a treat, because it looked so much worse before.
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Hello, and a warm welcome to new readers! Old ones, too, right?
It's no secret that with pretty much everything I do, I enjoy it more once I've established a deep, meaningful relationship with someone in my current wine collection.
Well, the cat's out of the bag meow, at any rate.
We've put the finishing touches on our tiny laundry room, and I'm going to share my cabinet with you today. While it's not technically a liquor cabinet, I suppose you could use it in any capacity you see fit. I'm actually using it for its intended purpose, which is to hold laundry stuff, because I don't need to hide my alcohol yet.
There are lots of cute laundry décor ideas out there, but none of them really suited my fancy, so I made up my own.
You may be picking up on a theme on this blog.
Most laundry loads are broken out into two major categories, right? Whites (or lights) and darks.
It just so happens my wines of choice are broken out in the exact same way! I decided to incorporate my favorite drinking buddies into my laundry design. I really don't think it's that much of a stretch.
But that might be the wine talking.
Here's what I came up with:
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My Reesie-Pie just turned one year old. That's twelve months in baby years. I just turned five hundred sixty-nine months, in case you were wondering. I'll wait while ya'll get your calculators out.
She's growing so fast! Isn't she beautiful? Grandi thinks so, too.
Of course we had a smash cake, but more on that later. Can we have a year in review? Because I certainly don't know where the time has gone!
The day she was born. Be still my heart.
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Holy dog poop.
Mom hasn't let me write a blog post since March.
MARCH, I SAY!
But I got sick. So she's feeling a little sorry for me. As she should.
Woof. I am Gracie.
It all started on Labor Day weekend. I was minding my own business, chasing down unsavory characters in the neighborhood (my usual daily enterprise). I felt fine during the day, but in the middle of the night, I became afflicted with nausea. Naturally, I vomited on the blanket covering Mom and Dad. But I was quiet and stealthy in my vomiting, because I didn't want to disturb them.
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Hello and welcome back!
If you're joining us late, you can catch up on part one of the guest bathroom HERE.
For those us who haven't already had too much to drink this morning, you might remember we left off with the vanity Phil built for The Room Where Dad Poops Every Morning.
It looks totally amazing.
But this is NOTHING compared to how this room looks now!
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Greetings! I've been absent. During that absence, I switched my e-mail subscriptions over to Mailchimp, and I don't know if those apes will successfully deliver this post. To anyone. Ever. Let me know, will ya?
In the meantime, I'll endeavor to write a read-worthy post and pretend there is someone out there who will at least take a peek. Otherwise, what's the point?
We've been living in our new home nearly four years now, and our guest bathroom is still unfinished. While that might sound like a terrible inconvenience, no one really likes us enough to want to be our guest in the first place. Probably because we make you bring your own beer, wine, and food, and insist you bring us a supply as well. (I like any Sauvignon Blanc as well as Apothic Dark for future reference.)
Or, perhaps it's because Gracie refers to the guest bathroom as "The Room Where Dad Poops Every Morning."
That's right. There's a toilet, but unless you want to wash your hands in the bathtub (or in the toilet you just defiled), you must find an alternative soap-and-water source.
So, why does Philly poop here instead of in our beautiful master bath? It's simple. There are two creatures indigenous to this particular bathroom that are terribly important to his "process."
First? The Squatty Potty (or, as I call it, the poop stool--which is a bit redundant and makes me giggle). Second is Mr. Kindle, upon which Philly ruthlessly battles Spider Solitaire while taking care of business.
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I can admit it.
I've been letting Gracie do all the heavy lifting around here lately. What little lifting has been done, anyway.
Phil and I tend to hibernate over the winter and lose all motivation to do anything and everything.
Except eat. We never lose motivation to eat. Because there's delicious wintertime comfort food to be had, and we look forward to putting on our thirty pounds of winter fat.
Each.
At least it gives us something to bitch about come springtime.
Nevertheless, I will continue to let Gracie have the run of the blog whenever she feels compelled; but, in the meantime, I have a furniture makeover for you today! And it's about bloody time, because it's for Reese, and she's already seven months old.
Holy poop-filled diapers. How did that happen so quickly? And why am I so late with this project?
Before you know it, Reese will be old enough to see that her Grandi occasionally swears on the blog.
In my defense, the kids have been renovating an old house and they are finally getting ready to move in. So, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not late at all, because I'm a wizard. And, as we all know, a wizard is never late, nor is she early. She arrives precisely when she means to.
Now, onto the buffet.
Only the finest for my grandnugget.
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I know. I know.
Mom promised you a furniture post, but like the good ratter I was bred to be, I nosed my way in yet again.
Personally, I find the title of this post rude and offensive. Psycho Dog. As if.
First of all, I'm not a D-O-G. I'm a Schnauzer. You didn't know there is a difference? Yes. There's a great difference.
Also, Mom happens to think I'm a complete psycho when I'm in the car. I think I'm completely amazing.
Woof. I am Gracie.
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I hope you're enjoying my taking over Mom's blog as much as I am. I also hope she trims my toenails soon, because it's becoming increasingly difficult to type.
She swears (a lot) that she's going to post a furniture project again soon (for that Reese-Baby, no less), but I just happen to be providing convenient blog fodder for the moment.
Woof. I am Gracie.
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"I've been taking up every spare moment of Mom's time."
This is the lie Mom wants me to tell you so you're not mad at her for being absent from the interwebs since before December. Instead, she wants you to blame ME for her truancy. Moi. Gracie. Because I'm a dog, and she doesn't think I'm capable of revealing that lie to you gracious and kindhearted folks.
Oh. And she's going to force me to tell you a couple stories I'd rather not discuss.
Because they made me get in trouble.
Woof. I am Gracie.
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