Dom and I agreed this year that we would buy each other house plans for Christmas, so we have been diligently calculating and measuring and thinking out loud about what this home should look like.  The draftsman we were introduced to turned out to also be a licensed builder and a genuinely great guy.  He has printed out two plan revisions so far and we are still drawing.  The square footage that we were aiming for has already been shot through the heart because of my unwillingness to feel like I’m cooking in my den – I need to feel a separation of spaces.  That’s just me.


Suffice it to say that I have NO CONCEPT of square footage.  I’m the lady who looks at her current home and says crap like, “Well, if we could just move the top story to the ground and have it all on one level, then there are rooms we don’t even use, so trade off that space to make the bedrooms bigger, and voila!  See?  I don’t need a house any bigger than what I already have.”


Architects and mathematicians fear me.


We showed our lot to our builder over the holidays.  He seemed pleased that it’s large enough to not impose any restrictions on the layout of our home.  Then I showed him a picture of the kitchen I want.  He threw his head back, laughed, and told me my lot wasn’t big enough for my kitchen.


He was kidding.


I think.


No, he was.  I know this because he returned to his computer and drew it precisely as I imagined.  He rocks.


Now that we have a layout that I am thrilled with, we just have to make sure that we have little things like backpack space in the exit hall, room in the garage for Dom’s worktable and closet doors wide enough to walk a laundry basket through without shimmying.


It’s the little things that drive me.  And apparently, little things make for a bigger house.