The price we pay for beauty.

When I negotiated for my house three years ago, I fought (and lost) a battle with the homeowners about the hideous, unworkable, 1970s sliding glass doors that surround my sunroom and patio. And I do mean “unworkable.” Of the four sets of doors, one completely wouldn’t open and the other three required Sampson’s supernatural strength to pull the glass partitions along their rough, rusting tracks.

Alas, some things you just come to live with.

Earlier this year, my dad in his retirement got a part-time job at Lowe’s … which lasted all of three weeks due to his dissatisfaction with things like “schedules,” “no smoking rules” and “customers.” But, that time allowed me to browse the door and window aisles with him. I realized that replacing sliding doors wasn’t nearly as expensive as I’d expected.

So, orders were placed, and like any dutiful daughter, I trusted my father when he promised, “Oh, sure. You and I can do the installation ourselves.” Now, my father — whose woodshop rivals Tim “the Tool Man” Taylor — raised a girl who is decently handy at minor home repair. Like putting furniture and equipment together. Like replacing hardware. Even like installing window air conditioners. Not like demoing and putting up drywall. However, I’ve been taught to respect my elders.

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