On living with a boy.

I bought my house shortly after turning 23. I lived alone for 5 and a half glorious years, which by the way, I recommend every girl does in her life.

Sure I had sleepovers, I had friends stay, I even had post-hospital stints where I stayed back at my parents for a few weeks. But all in all, for five sweet years, those two thousand square feet were my own.

I painted the walls wild colors. I bought a teal couch. I hung giant photos of palm trees, of me posing with koalas, of my friends and I laughing hysterically.

I broke shit. I fixed shit I broke. I you-tubed a lot, and consulted the google diary of home ownership more than an average person probably ever would (perks of owning a 1930s home, I guess.) And when I couldn't fix the shit I broke, I cried for a bit. Then I called my dad and he came and fixed it for me.

You don't really grasp the kind of freedom that comes with living alone until it's gone.

Gone are the days when I meticulously arranged my Tupperware, or I ran around with my pants around my ankles because the toilet paper needed refilled, or I stood on chairs to get the perfect angle of my homemade pizza for Instagram. Do you KNOW how weird it is for someone to walk in on you standing with the fridge wide open eating straight Parmesan cheese in your underwear on a Saturday morning?

On Memorial Day weekend, we said goodbye to Tate's bachelor pad in the heart of Indianapolis and moved him out to the suburbs. Being the type to always have something to look forward to, we (of course) fell in love with a house (also downtown) that same week, and if I remember correctly, had our offer accepted the day we were loading his eight--hundred pound dresser onto the trailer to go to the storage unit.

All of this to say that living with a boy is strange, strange territory. I'd like to think we're navigating it OK together. We've learned that I'm always right when it comes to taking the trash out, how to put away dishes, properly doing laundry, and so on and so forth. And I guess I've learned how to let him veg out watching four hours straight on the history of Irish Castles.

It is nice to have someone else to share doggy duties with, and my bed is a lot cozier now that I have a full-time snuggle buddy. I've enjoyed cooking for two, versus leaving myself with a mountain of leftovers. We've depleted my wine stock tenfold, and having the longest-running game of Rummy in history. We've managed to divvy out the chores pretty easily, and he makes me put away my clothes. Which I guess is a good thing, considering my closet hasn't 'thrown up' all over the bedroom floor in nearly 3 months now.

It still feels like this weird purgatory of having a boy living in MY space though. It's all MY furniture, my art, my routines and plans, my name on all the bills. And I can tell he feels like an extended visitor at times.

I think we're both in the same boat eagerly anticipating closing day (this Friday - eek!) on the new home. A fresh start for us to build a 'together' home.

Who knows, I may even let him have a say in how we organize the Tupperware in the new place?



I'm over here getting all panicky.

The builders told me the other day that the house is slated to be finished Friday. FRIDAY.
That's TODAY.

Suddenly the plan of 'waiting to put my house on the market until ours is finished' just sashayed up and biatch slapped me across the face. I woke up, after Lord knows what kind of dreams, in an absolute panic, POSITIVE that my house will never sell. That this was the worst idea ever. That we have a million things we should do to it before even listing it. That we missed the 'prime selling months' of Spring and early Summer. That it will sit on the market for months and months



Drowning in anxiety over here.

Power of positivity, eh folks? 


Woodgrain tiles and industrial lights, be still my heart

(Note: While opinions are my own, this is a sponsored post, and may contain affiliate links)

The thing about buying a “fixer upper” that someone else is doing the fixing on… you’ve got to put a lot of trust into that fella.

Both Tate & I agreed, that since we were fans of the builders other homes in the area, we wouldn’t become those overbearing, nit-picky buyers who insist on choosing every single door know, window frame, and hardware accent.

That’s not to say a girl can’t dream though! Through this whole house-hunting process I’ve come to learn that, kitchens aside, one of the biggest ‘surprises’ always ends up being the bathrooms.
Especially in flipped homes, they can range from traditional (think: penny tiles, porcelain claw foot tubs, etc) to super modern (floating vanities, bright chrome accessories, stark white finishes). 

My tastes always fall within the traditional, boho styles. Tate's more of a modern, simplistic kind of guy. I won't indulge you on how many tiffs stemmed from a potential home's bathroom these past few months! I've spent a lot of time perusing the internet for mixes of our styles, and was pleasantly surprised when I came across all the great products offered by the online company, PlumbTile

I'm anxiously awaiting finding out what our new bathrooms will look like... in the mean time, join me for a little day-dream'y walk down what I'd love to see when they hand us the keys...

1) I absolutely adore this new style of wood-look tiles that are popping up. As a self-proclaimed "tile-hater" these have definitely changed my mind on the topic... 

2) A sink that holds true to the antique style of the house, such as this one. Not to mention classic hardware to go with it!)

3) Minimalist accessories, such as this towel ring

4) A simple mirror, in an unexpected shape.

5) An industrial style light to add some edge to the space

6) A teak bathmat, for a little bit of nature.

I'd add some bright colored rugs and towels, a bold paint color on the walls, and a few plants to really complete the space. 

What about your dream bath? What do you want to wake up to every morning?


On stalking, or networking.

Well, we did it. We bought a house. Just when all of my friends and family had taken to tuning me out for complaining, justonemoretime, about the insane housing market here in Indy, we stumbled upon one.

Stumbled probably isn't the right term. Stalked my way into one is probably more in line.
You all shouldn't have expected anything less than that from me though, let's be real.

Oh, and I should also mention the term "house" is being thrown around haphazardly here, as the lovely plot we promised a chunk of change for was actually minimally resembling a home when we agreed to it.

Exhibit A:

In complete truthfulness, those photos were actually a week after the papers were signed. There was even less progress, and even more mess when we fell in love with her.

Let me hit the rewind button first...
To that fateful date night in late February where the topic got brought up, and the 'why the hell not' got thrown around....
That first condo that had 4 offers the day after we went and saw it...
That house well fell in love with in early March, that was sold the night before we submitted our offer....
That next house we fell in love with in late March that was a slap in the face (as explained here)...
Those 482 other houses we saw....
The condo we fell in love with that had 8 offers the first day...
That time I wanted to say forget it, and live in my house in the suburbs for forever because I was over the whole rat race and couldn't help but assume OBVIOUSLY we weren't meant to live downtown for a reason.

Then I woke up, left my pity party, and did what any other girl would do. Started tracking down the builders who were flipping houses in the areas we liked.

And once I found one with a history of houses we both loved, I may have employed Facebook Messenger to do a little woo'ing and sniffing around to see what their upcoming projects were.

The houses they were doing were massive, and we weren't planning on producing enough offspring to fill 4 bedrooms anytime soon, so I waited, and touched base, and waited, and probably touched base a few too many times.

Then one fateful Tuesday morning, as Memorial Day weekend was crawling towards us, I heard that delightful ping on my Facebook (because who doesn't keep all social media avenues open whilst working... I thought that was the whole point of 2 monitors to begin with?)

An update on their two gargantuan houses... and then... scrolling... scrolling... what is this? A new project they were about to begin... in the same neighborhood as the first house we loved... 3 bedrooms... 2.5 bathrooms... the hearts in my eyes mimicked that overused iPhone emoji like never before.

Maybe I was jumping the gun a bit, but when you house-hunt in this market, any glimmer of hope gets you giddy.

Less than a week later, we had walked through the house twice, had a million conversations with the builder, had some life chats over Moscow Mules, and signed the papers making the house ours.

Contingent, of course, on the fact that it... well, gets finished. And finished well.

Tate thinks there are still too many things that could go wrong, and worries about it on the regular.
Me on the other hand, I pop by the job site every few days, chat it up with the latino workers, take a million photos of the "process" and email incessantly with the builder about what they're up to each day.

Regardless of my right-brained'ness and Tater's left-brained'ness... I think it's safe to say we're both elated to see our fixer-upper!


On lemon pound cakes. Or house-hunting. Or being bitter.

Imagine walking into Starbucks, FINALLY, after you have been fighting a day-long sweet tooth, stood patiently in line, walked up to the counter only to be told that the person in front of you bought the last Iced Lemon Pound Cake they had.

Yes, I am equating this house-hunting process to Starbucks pastries. And no, I see no issues with that.

Then imagine you tuck in your pouty lip, and go find another Starbucks, and you see that lucious, zesty Iced Lemon Pound Cake just flirting with you from the case. She's a beaut. And you order it, and your giddy and your mouth is watering, and the barista tells you that she's going to cost you roughly 4x what she's worth. And you try to reassure them that all other Starbuck's only sell them for a fraction of the cost, but the barista isn't budging.

And you untuck your pouty lip, and hand the most perfect little pound cake back, and walk out the door.

And every other Starbucks sucks. And every other pound cake has sucked since then. And you are about to become paleo just so you can't even EAT a pound cake even if you found one.

I'm not bitter or anything. I'm totally cool with house-hunting. I don't take it personally, or get upset, or fall in love with any of the houses. Me? No. Nooo.

We're back to square one. For the third time. Blah blah blah, don't try feeding me the 'we'll stumble upon the most perfect one when we least expect it' line, my level of patience is on par with that of a toddler.

Also, I've really been craving a lemon pound cake.