The average American male, upon finding himself in the kitchen of a woman he’s just met on the morning after their second date, would probably skedaddle when faced with the prospect of meeting said woman’s father.
But he doesn’t skedaddle.
In fact, when my dad arrives, 8 minutes ahead of schedule, he simply says hello and offers him a cinnamon bun from the tray I’d made for breakfast.
It is then that I realize he’s not your average American male.
(Our first date had given me a few clues but this confirmed it.)
And when the contractor arrives a few minutes later, he follows us from room to room, not getting in the way but just listening as I explain what I’d like to have done: new ceilings throughout the entire downstairs, new walls (sheet rock or skim coat), a new full sized window to replace the current Hobbit-sized window at the front of the house, new French doors to replace the window overlooking my back deck, a square arch to replace the fake Styrofoam brick monstrosity that currently separates my dining room from my kitchen and so and so forth…
There is, as usual, a lot of discussion about the ceiling. It’s a wreck (which is why the previous owner dropped the whole thing down and covered it with Styrofoam panels) and I want it completely redone to give the rooms as much height as possible.
There are, I’ve learned, quite a few different ways to accomplish this task (I won’t bore you with the details) but when the discussion is over, I think that maybe, just maybe, I have finally found a contractor who is going to be able to do what I want him to do.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ve found a man who is—pardon the phrase—man enough to come along for the ride.