Happy hour is great until the next morning, when you've got to throw up a pony tail and try not to puke while learning to lay tile so you can have a bathroom floor, because you really need a toilet in your days-away home.
One casual afternoon, D was down in the basement working on something or other (I was at work). A man walked inside, claiming to be an inspector from licensing and inspection.
We used cobbled together pieces of plywood to walk around on, because you know, we still had work to do up there and all. Can’t let a lack of FLOORING get in the way of our big plans.
I offer this story as a cautionary tale, to dispel the pizzazz of 2-day HGTV renovation shows, and give my humble take on what’s appropriate to DIY and what really ought to be left to the pros.
Do visions of mouse poo, buried bones, beer bottles of piss and used condoms strung about like Christmas lights spell Home, Sweet Home to you? Me, too!