Do It Yourself

Perhaps if the little dude in the millwork department at Home Depot had known that the rhinestones on my sunglasses are meant to be ironic, he would not have spoken to me like I was a fluffy-headed idiot.  I am an idiot of an entirely different sort than he imagines. Or so I imagine.

My garage as a whole is somewhat less than sound. It’s a two-car garage, with two garage doors. The most precarious aspect on that particular Friday afternoon was the door on the right; it was my conviction that parts would fall off if I subjected it to one more opening and closing. Opening it seemed crucial. The right side of the garage is filled with old furniture; it belonged to the previous owners of my house. Nothing, it seemed to me, would make a more fabulous bonfire for the 4th of July than that furniture. Closing it, however, also seemed crucial. Where I live, what the crackheads don’t steal, the feral cats piss on.

The simple solution, I thought, was a new garage door. Home Depot sells garage doors. They are large, but I have a truck.

The American Heritage Dictionary defines millwork like this: “Woodwork, such as doors, window casings, and baseboards, ready-made by a lumber mill.” At Home Depot, the area in which doors – closet doors, front doors, sliding glass doors, and garage doors – are located is called the millwork department. As a devout Home Depot adherent, I know this. I don’t even mind that the majority of these items do not seem to be made of wood. My fussy insistence on proper word usage is suspended by the little surge of dopamine released by my brain when I walk into those vast temples to Do It Yourself.

Do It Yourself. This seems to be the sum total of what I have learned from feminism. I do not feel entitled to anything. No. I feel that I must be a good representative of my gender and Do It Myself. I must demonstrate at all times that I am equally capable, that I am willing and able to do equal work. I carry my own luggage. I own my own power tools. I lay my own tile. I installed my own dishwasher, and I damn well clean up my own kitchen. Sometimes. I mean, I’m the only one who ever cleans it. It doesn’t happen very often.

I would have liked a wooden garage door, ready-made by a lumber mill. I would have liked one with windows. I told this to the little dude in the millwork department. He regretted that they don’t stock such things. What they stock is an ugly, flimsy, metal affair with no windows. I could order a nicer one, he told me.

“How long will that take?”

“Three-four weeks.”

“I want it today. I’m an instant gratification kind of person.” I said this apologetically, politely. Truly, I am aware of my deficiencies and limitations as a human being; this is one of them and I acknowledge it. I am sorry for it. It causes me trouble. It irritates other people. But hell. If there’s a door available, I’ll take it. I’ll pay for it.

I decided that the flimsy metal thing would have to do. My need for a bonfire outweighed my long-term aesthetic concerns, in addition to which, I couldn’t really afford to spend $600 on a garage door.

The door – the thoroughly unsatisfactory but immediately available door – was out of stock.

The little dude did not apologize. “Well, you say you’re an instant gratification kind of gal – but what do you think you’re gonna do with the door when you get it home tonight?”

“Install it?” I do not like to be called a gal.

“Have you ever installed a garage door?” As if that had a single goddamned thing to do with anything. As if Home Depot would be in business if people felt limited to doing only the things they’ve done before.

“I’ve done a lot of things I’d never done before by coming here, buying stuff, taking it home, and following the instructions.”

“Heh.” He regarded me with something that looked like a cross between pity and contempt. “It’s not easy to do,” he said. “You can’t get it done tonight. And it’s not a job for one person.”

“I’ll go to Lowe’s,” I told him, backing away.

“You can’t do it by yourself,” he called after me.

At Lowe’s, I did not talk to anyone. I went to the lumber department with a cart; I stacked 4x8 sheets of poplar plywood on it, 1 x 4 pine boards, a pile of assorted hinges and other hardware from their millwork department, a box of wood screws, carriage bolts, nuts, a can of stain, and a gallon of polyurethane. I dragged the cart up to the front – my beaded flip-flops slid on the slick floor and made it hard to pull – and went to the power tool department. I picked up a box with a table saw in it.

“You can’t carry that,” said a man in a Lowe’s shirt. “Let me get you a cart.”

I carried the table saw to the closest register, retrieved my cart, and paid for my stuff. Outside, I loaded it in my truck by myself.

I had to cancel the party at which I had intended to burn the old furniture; I didn’t have time for a party. I was very busy building a garage door. It took me three days, every waking moment of the Independence Day weekend. I had to go back to Lowe’s three times – twice to buy more stuff, and once to return the stuff I didn’t use. With the table saw, it cost me about $600.

The state of my garage is somewhat precarious. The window is broken. It needs a new roof. The furniture I so fervently wanted to get rid of is, in fact, still right where it was last July 1st. The door on the left, if I open and close it too many more times, is going to fall apart. The door on the right, however, is a thing of beauty.