My front door has become the bane of my existence of late. Since the storm door was removed for curb appeal reasons and then accidentally given away, I’ve been in a war against wind, rain and little ant demons. The only thing keeping most of those things at bay at the moment is a lovely strip of green painter’s tape. SCIENCE!
A new front door is in the works and will be in place shortly, but trying to get one ran me smack dab into one of the weirdest experiences I’ve had in a good while. Salespeople are an odd breed to start with but within seconds of entering my home, the door guy seemed to be surprised and confused by how I could possibly own a home in this neighbourhood all by myself. He was in his mid-50s, asked if it was me or my husband making the final door decision and didn’t seem interested in listening to any of my answers. It was infuriating. I may live in a 50s bungalow but I suddenly felt as if we’d hopped in a time machine and landed squarely back in the day of powerless housewives and toilet brush salesmen. No thank you, bub.
The whole thing was easily settled by my closing the door behind his outdated mode of doing business and talking to women, but it left such a yucky taste in my mouth. I’ve mentioned before that I was fortunate to have a dad who even though he was an out-and-out hillbilly, never once kept me from doing anything because I was a girl. We fished and rough-housed and just did whatever. I am also lucky that coming up against weirdo cro-magnon man stuff is a rarity because I am awesome and being awesome is a genderless trait. I just live my life, try to do neat things and pay no heed to the dumb silliness around me. But my experience with door dude stuck in my craw enough to almost ruin ONE WHOLE DAY and that is unforgivable. Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY.