tile and windows and doors, oh my!

I've been through renovation obsessions in my life, but nothing like what's happening right now, as I envision our little plain (pink) vanilla beach house turning into a lush little gem on the water.

When I bought this 1942 cottage in 1989, I lay awake nights envisioning different colors on the walls, what to do about wall paper, bathroom issues and the like. Then I focused on how to rectify the sins of the previous owners, beyond having ripping up the shag carpet and popping off the mirrored gold stickem tiles that sprouted everywhere on the walls.

In 2000, just before Mike got sick, we were in the midst of a kitchen renovation, opening the wall between kitchen and dining room and expanding the space into what was eventually a glorious, light-filled, exquisite, custom kitchen as perfect as anything I imagined.

The bathrooms were next, but not until the floor nearly collapsed beneath the tub. The result is so pretty, and it's a treat just to brush my teeth over a 1920s carved oak French washstand that we turned into a gorgeous vanity, to take a dip in the clawfoot tub, or to shower surrounded by black marble and sunshine from the skylight above.

But this beach house. I'm stymied. Maybe it will all come together. Aluminum windows are recommended but I want the rot-resistant ultra hard Mexican mahogany. Sliding windows are common, but I want casement windows that will open in, with screens, and the usual protectores made prettier for the outside.

Tile? Tile will be everywhere, covering inside and out in the same floor color. But what color should it be? Mexican Modern, the most evident beach style, calls for creamy travertine or some other kind of light tile, and white walls, glossy surfaces.

I've tried to imagine living in a modern space and I can't see it. I look at the pictures in books and they're lovely, but they're just not me. I need terra cotta tiles and Mexican Talavera as accents. Wooden windows. Ancient old wooden doors. I want colors in the bath and in the kitchen, deep, dark, rich tones that are really at odds with beach life.

In my mind, I'm painting the walls a creamy white, to make up for the richness of tones elsewhere. The sofa and chairs are slipcovered in white canvas and the furnishings are spare, with lots of open space and a few very large, favorite pieces from home.

It doesn't seem like mattresses and box springs are typical, but I want a bed high enough that we can lie there in the morning and without even raising our heads, see the emerald waves of the Gulf right outside the bedroom window.

In my mind it's beautiful and all I want to think about. But other things creep in, like propane tanks, and water pressure thingies, and ceiling fans, and where to put the electrical outlets, and outdoor lighting, and hookups for the washer, and whether we can just skip having a dryer. And what about surge protectors? And water heaters?

It's occupying every waking moment and some in the middle of the night when my eyes pop open with another vision that I simply must remember. In the meantime, I need to do something here, tagging the garden perennials I recognize so I can have a plant sale in the spring. So much to get rid of, inside and out, in this cottage I've lived in for 20 years.

That's what's going on in Tulsa, where we are studiously avoiding anything to do with the H word (+ealthcare) or anything P (olitical). I keep thinking it's probably not smart, planning this move, giving up work at the high point of my earning years, and then something rises up in me and says fuck it, do it now or maybe never. What the hell.

You? Got plans? Dreams? Taking a new, possibly risky direction in life? Tell, please.