Last night Husband and I broke down and purchased a set of french doors to replace the sliding glass door leading from our kitchen/dining room onto the back deck. The price tag stung a bit because it was an unexpected expense (although the 10% off coupon did help. Seriously, if you need a coupon to the big box home improvement store that begins with "L" and rhymes with "toes," just pick up (i.e., steal) a few "change of address" packets from your local post office.) The doors are lovely and have the blinds built in between the two panes of glass to match our new back door. They are made out of steel, which was an important requirement. We discovered that the old sliding glass door had let in enough moisture to rot the wood around the entrance. Since we knew we would have to replace this anyway, why not just blow several hundred more on a prettier door that actually opens smoothly and doesn't include a screen that looks as though it has been attacked by the members of the Broadway musical Cats? Pictures of the doors and the carpet that was installed over a week ago are still pending because I'm both lazy and forgetful.
Additionally, last night we purchased some roofing paper to lay on top of the plywood as a moisture barrier before our beautiful bamboo hardwood goes down this weekend (take note, future homeowners). We also bought some rope, whose intended purpose was to tie down the doors on the way home but that I think I will instead use to hang myself once I see our final renovation total.
However, last Saturday we did make a small pittance of our investment back when I participated in the town-wide yard sale by dragging onto my driveway all of our "inheritance," that is, crappy possessions left in the house by the previous owners. Anyone want a broken teapot? A bodily fluid/animal hair encrusted vanity? A birdbath that probably houses the avian flu? Well, too bad, because people trashier than me already bought all of that junk. We got rid of almost everything that had collected in our basement for the past four months, which thrilled me beyond belief because purging is one of my favorite things to do (not as in, like, bulimia). What was even better is that I had no emotional ties to the detritus, so I was more than happy to accept customers' haggling. The two boxes left over will probably be donated to Goodwill or the Habitat for Humanity retail shop. Good riddance.
And so we march on through renovation hell. As many, many people have repeated to me, at least we aren't forced to live in the middle of it. If we had, we would probably have black lung from the drywall dust and uncovered mold and our divorce would be pending. Luckily, that is not the case. Yet.