I love my house, and I hate my house. Do you know what I mean? It’s a 1950s ranch that we bought nine years ago and moved in on Christmas Eve. I bought it because it had a wood ceiling, a funky old oven and it reminded me of my grandparents.
We replaced every window. We replaced the furnace. We replaced the roof. We painted it. We built a fence. We cut down a giant redwood whose giant, rain-soaked limbs were perched precariously over the living room.
And then, we had another baby.
And then, I went back to work.
And then, we ran out of money.
And then, and then, and then….
So here we are, eight years later and hardly any closer to the myriad improvements that I’d envisioned when we first became homeowners. The last three years have been..um, let’s say dicey…and haven’t really been conducive to expensive home repairs and cosmetic improvements.
I daresay the pendulum has begun to swing the other way. As the car payments and random loans start dropping away I am once again plotting and planning things like tiling all the floors that aren’t hardwood, replacing 1970s paneling with actual walls, replacing cabinet hardware and oh my gosh, PAINTING every square inch of that darn house.
And I want terra cotta-colored tile just like this: