Okay, no, I don't really live at the beach. But it's a dream. Meanwhile, my remodeling-contractor husband Chris and I are renovating a ranch house in the suburbs of Atlanta in our own beachy style--sand-colored hardwood floors, mint-green walls, lots of light. It's been a long, long process.
Twelve years ago we plunked down every penny we had on 2 acres, a pool and a big pile of potential that could only loosely be called a house. Mostly we called it the cave--brown trim, brown-gold carpet (with a heavy overlay of dirt!), and this dark room that we generously named the box room. It had been a garage in a former life. Whoever changed it into indoor space had worked way beyond their potential.
You'd think (it's okay, everybody else does, too) with my very own remodeling contractor in the house things would go smoothly and quickly around here. But, in fact, just the opposite is true. Following a grueling day of working on other people's houses, Chris isn't real anxious to get to work on our needy pile of $#*@. As a result we had 7 years with no floorcovering, 5 years with no oven (except a 1940s fire hazard that I'll get to later) and more years than I can count during which the only decorations were wires that hung from the exposed rafters and insulation that crept out through the visible studs.
Hurricanes continue to rage at the Beach House in the Burbs. But one day skies will clear. I just know they will.