Sort of. Measurements have been taken, and the Contractor is now at some Home Depot-esque store purchasing the kinds of things that contractors purchase… I dunno, nails and stuff.
He was asking me all sorts of trick questions like “did we want a phone jack” and “what kind of doors were in the rest of our house” and “was this one baseboard heater adequate for the room”. What the hell? That’s why we hired you, buddy! ‘Cause I don’t know this shit! Seriously, these are exactly the kinds of reasons that Mr.Q and I live in a strata townhouse. We don’t have to worry about checking the roof, changing exterior light bulbs [it can take months to change even the interior ones – usually once a few go out and it becomes kind of difficult to see], landscaping or deck repairs.
Despite the odd delusion of one day buying a house, I have a really difficult time actually seeing us living in a stand alone, older, completely-ours house. We would never sleep out of fear of the roof caving in or the basement flooding or a stair collapsing. Either that, or we’d be constantly paying to have work done as overkill preventative maintenance. Yes, that’s all stuff that could happen here but, here, we’ve got somebody to pass the buck to: the Strata Manager. That’s what he gets paid the big bucks for.
Besides, Leo the Shiba Inu and Mesquite the House Cat like it here. And, based on this morning’s activities, having someone come in once every few years to do a little minor work is probably about the maximum that they could handle.
Reminder [aka pimp]: don’t forget to stop by and visit Newfie Girl – the link’s just over on the left and she’s so well worth the read!