Tomorrow I have a contractor coming to the house.
No, really, for the third time. It's actually kind of embarrassing.
Let me explain: We live in a six-room colonial. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths. No garage. Unfinished basement. There are five people in our family, three of them are young, but growing, boys. The cabinets in my kitchen are original, and have been painted over several times. The kitchen floor is a sheet of vinyl that was probably once white, but no amount of mopping or steaming will confirm that hypothesis.
In a nutshell: We need more room. Stat.
So why am I have my third meeting in two years with aforementioned contractor, you ask? Well, because, and I quote the Hubster, "I'm in no rush to add on." Thus says the man who leaves the house and sits in an office all day while I watch the walls close in around me.
But this time, I've changed things up a bit, you see. For a reasonable fee, the contractor will measure, talk to me about what I want, and draw up a plan and cost proposal for an addition.
Words have made no progress in this discussion. The time has come to fight with visuals.
And I will be ready.