Wash, Rinse, Repeat.

So this blog is turning into a Baby Blog, only substitute "Baby" for "House." I'm a proud new mother and I can't stop talking about it. 

You, Stranger, driving down the street? Well, pull on in and let me give you a tour.  

I've "entertained" twice now since we've been here the last week. Entertained in the loosest sense of the word, as I can barely find suitable entertaining necessities like glasses and snacks. 

But no one has complained about drinking wine and sangria out of margarita glasses. They seem to be an acceptable vessel for any alcoholic beverage. 

And my friend J showed me that the only real snack needed to make it a party is some Pace salsa and tortilla chips, which I am now keeping stocked for visitors. I do have the most darling salsa dishes, some hand-painted little beauties that I picked up in Tuscany. They've been in storage for 8 years, and I'm so excited to finally #1/ be able to find them and #2/ be able to use them.

One of my favorite parts of the house - not counting the deck, because it just wins on all levels, even though it's in need of a cleaning and staining - is the first-floor laundry room.  

I. Love. That. So. Hard. 

We had to get a plumber out here to get it hooked up, so we've only been up & running (or washing, as the case may be) for 5 days, but it is so nice to just be la-de-dahing to go pee, and oh, wait, since I'm walking past the washing machine, I'll throw in some blankets. 

Or change the bedding.

Or wash a load of towels.

Or clean a load of blue jeans.

We've never been so clean.  We've never been on a wash-the-sheets-once-a-week plan because it was a pain in the ass, and frankly I hated going to our messy basement to do laundry so it was a catch-as-catch-can situation. Usually dire-need inspired.

But now?  Clean. No more need to sniff laundry to find something that's the least offensive (finger points at you, My Mister).  

That's all I have time for, I've got an entire house to unpack, and believe me, it's a lot because everyone who does stop over insists I let them know when they can come over and help me because I look like I'm in over my head here. And I may well be. But I'm going to keep plugging away, one box at a time, and it'll get done. In between washing clothes.

If you're in the neighborhood, stop over and see the baby. Er, house. Pull up a chair on the deck and drink a beer out of a margarita glass with me. I think this could be the start of a new trend, it does turn every beverage into a party.