the door to my heart.

I had all kinds of plans to talk about homeschool stuff today, as I wrap up the year and already start gearing up for next year.  I have plans to tell you about our summer schedule, and show you what our portfolios will look like, and give a rundown of all the amazingness we fit into our pretty relaxed Charlotte Mason school year.  HOWEVER.  I made all these plans before Todd decided to hang my new door.  So forget the rest of that noise, TODAY WE'RE TALKING ABOUT MY DOOR.

For my birthday in March, I had asked for a new door leading from our dining room into our garage.  The one we have now is hollow core, black, dog-ugly, and really fit only for the fiery pits of hell.  It is a serious bane of my existence, a thorn in my flesh, a Lego in my shoe.  I have been cursing it since the day we moved in, and I'm ready to find its replacement.  So I thought a-shopping for vintage doors we should go!

Long story short and predictable, we made a trip to St. Louis to look for one, but couldn't find one that fit that opening.  BUT we did find a couple of other things that made life worth living for at least a little longer.  This radiator...

...and a paneled wood door that fit the doorway to the basement stairs.  We got a glass knob, and a door plate... and stuck it in the garage until such time as we would get around to hanging it.

One thing you need to know about us is that we are not handy.  Like, at allllll.  One other thing you should know is that I'm a really slow decorator, so even when I'm capable, it takes me a reeeeeally long time to pull the trigger on any decorating decisions.  (It all stems from a poor, hastily made decision about my wedding dress, and I still can't shake the trauma.)

So imagine my surprise when, mere weeks after having purchased the door, I came inside from watering the garden to find Todd prepping the doorway for its replacement surgery.  I knew I married this wonderful man for something other than just his sick bod.

From what he tells me, it was simple enough.  I wouldn't know; I didn't help.  I took the girls to the mall to get their nails painted and left him to slave away on the door surgery by himself.

When I got home, the door was hung and looking glorious, and Todd denies having heard anything, but I swear it was singing to me.   "Paaaaaaaaige.  You were so riiiiiiiiiiight.  I look amaaaaaaaaaaaaazing, just like you knew I wouuuuuuuuld.  NowgivemeaHUUUUUUUUG!"  (That was the crescendo of the song, in case you didn't automatically transpose that in your mind.)  Try as you might, it is physically impossible to resist the urge of a singing door, so I was compelled to hug it.  (I was also compelled to clean it; it's seriously like an 80-year-old door and it needed a little spruce.)

You guys.  I'm not telling you how to live your lives or anything, but consider this a strong push to line up outside my house to come in and see this for yourselves.  Hear the solid 'doomph' sound it makes when it closes, the way a door should.  No more of this clicky-sounding hollow core nonsense.  Real, old-fashioned doomphing is happening around here for the first time in the two years we've lived in this house.

I am, unfortunately, now foaming at the mouth to replace every last door on the premises.  Todd really should know better than to let me start on stuff like this.  Shame on him.