This afternoon my house husband, Nick, aka my contractor, left, and I couldn't have been happier. Not that I'm going back on the vows we made when we first came together to fix my third floor. We've stuck by each other in good times -- when the skylights opened and brightened up the rooms, and the blue glass tiles combined for a penthouse-looking shower - and bad -- when it turned out the glass shower doors didn't quite fit. And I didn't run the other way when, as the hours went on, he, and the plumber, and the electrician, and the painter, got richer and I got poorer. But it was always a contract marriage, good for the time it took to transform an attic to a haven -- or as a friend named it, "the Margie-Cave." 
And transformed it has been. Shiny white walls and painted floors, all angles and corners -- great for a game of hide-and-seek as Kanha has made sure I know, built-in dressers and file cabinets, a closet you can walk into and a bedroom window you can jump out of (only to meet the fire code...), colorful pendant lights and sleek and sharp track lights, a bedroom and bath so functional yet so fabulous. The timeline and the price tag have made me murmur under my breath but the results make me want to shout for joy out all three skylights at once. I can only hope my next marriage works out as well. Thanks Nick.
