Dear people of Jefferson County,
Can somebody explain patio doors to me like I’m five?
Actually… explain them to me like I’m five, only allowed to use safety scissors, can’t be left unsupervised, and still think Elmer’s glue is a legitimate food group.
I’m trying to replace one patio door.
One.
Not build a suspension bridge. Not split the atom. Not restore a cathedral. Just replace the giant glass rectangle that’s currently about as weatherproof as a screen door on a submarine.
The problem is… I don’t even know how to buy the stupid thing.
Apparently there are rough openings, finished openings, jamb depths, handing, thresholds, frame sizes, and enough fractions to convince me my fourth-grade math teacher was right all along.
Even Lowe’s sent TWO people to measure it.
Two.
If the people who sell doors looked at my opening and said, “Let’s get another guy over here,” what chance do I have? I’m standing there nodding like I understand while my brain has wandered off to think about whether raccoons pay property taxes.
And don’t even get me started on the Menards DIY door kiosk.
70½” W × 81½” H, in case that means something to you.
To me, that kiosk is like playing The Sims on expert mode with my bank account on the line. Every button I click feels like I’m accidentally adding another $1,800 to the total.
Then I found out they’re called French doors.
Is that why they’re so expensive?
Do they arrive from Paris wrapped in baguettes? Is there a tiny accordion player hidden in the shipping crate? Do I have to salute the Eiffel Tower before they’ll open?
Where are the American doors?
The Dollar General edition.
The ones that aren’t fancy. They squeak a little, one corner is probably crooked, but by God they keep the rain out, the dogs in, and they don’t require financing until civilization collapses.
As a disabled guy, DIY isn’t really an option. If YouTube says it’s a two-hour project, they forgot to mention you need fifteen specialty tools, the grip strength of a silverback gorilla, and a cousin named Bubba who’s available for pizza and beer.
Also, and this is 100% true…
My last two handymen both ended up in jail.
Not because of me.
I ain’t no snitch.
At this point I’m starting to think I should ask for references, proof of insurance, and confirmation that there aren’t any active warrants before anyone touches my house.
So if you know someone who can help me order the right door, install it, and charge something that doesn’t require me to refinance my soul, I’d really appreciate it.
Otherwise I’m just going to stack rocks in the opening, convert the cabin into a hobbit hole, and accept my fate as the local Gollum. If you hear someone hissing “my precious” from the woods while carrying a Lowe’s receipt, mind your business.
Dispatches like this one are being collected in What The F(arm): Sixty Dispatches from an Unqualified Ohio Farmer — $40, half of which turns straight into hay for the horses, the mini donkey, and the baby goats. The presses roll when 100 people pre-order.