A Strong Foundation

The foundation.

The foundation continues to develop in our pretty, pretty hole. We’re going up to Poolesville again this weekend to take care of some paperwork for a couple minor changes. While building this house has been an adventure so far, I’m beginning to tire of all the details. We go round and round on whether we get the brushed bronze or polished bronze pot-filler faucet (that is, a faucet attached to the wall behind of the stove. Yeah, I didn’t know they existed either). Or the drawers of the guest-bathroom vanity (sorry guests, we’ve decided to nix them). Or roof insulation (okay, that last one is fairly important and I called my dad to verify we were making the correct choice). At our last meeting, the sales dude mentioned floodlights and I instantly cringed. And, as expected, my darling husband has fretted for days as to whether or not we need floodlights in the back yard. I don’t think we need them, and I would much rather put that money toward something necessary—like window coverings in the master bathroom so we don’t bare all for our neighbors to see. Last week, we met with the project manager who’s in charge of building our house. Prejudiced daughter of a contractor that I am, I pictured a khakis-wearing novice pretending he’s one of the guys because he wears a hard hat. So imagine my surprise when I met Troy, a completely non-preppy guy wearing—I kid you not—the exact same insulated type of hunting jacket that my dad wears, complete with deer and other kinds of game on it. Then he won over Chris by being sufficiently impressed with the amount of manly stainless steel going into the kitchen via the 60-inch Wolf range. Apparently THAT makes sense. But I got a raised eyebrow shot my way when he learned of the second dishwasher. (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—how can I possibly clean up after the mess that six burners plus a 24-inch griddle will make with one puny dishwasher?) Troy went through a list of what we could expect during the next few months, implicitly trying to ensure we keep our demands reasonable and don’t constantly nag him. Silently I promised to be the best clients ever. The last thing I want is for this guy to go home each night and kick the family dog because the Hofmanns were being nagging, difficult jerks again. Then we were given the safety instructions—which pretty much amounted to Don’t Go Into The Jobsite. I understand liability and everything, but my dad let my brother and me run around wild on job sites—running up and down stairwells with no railings, trying not to fall on exposed saw blades, and dodging nails that might get stuck in the bottoms of our shoes (or feet). I also remember being allowed to sweep sawdust. I actually thought I could clean up a construction site. All in all, I feel that our budding house is in good hands--but it can't get built fast enough!