You may recall that when we bought our house in July, it was missing a bunch of things. One of those things was a door for the wood stove.
Because there were so many other things to worry about when we moved in (surprise black mold in the kitchen, anyone?) we just threw a bunch of LED candles in there, set them on a timer, and enjoyed our flame-less “fires” in the evening. And then we got our first electric bill of the winter and I realized that if we didn’t get that stove working, we’d be spending the equivalent of a Michael Kors handbag every month just to heat the damn house. And if I’m spending the equivalent of a Michael Kors handbag on anything, it’s going to be a Michael Kors handbag.
Anyway, I Googled the serial number on the back of our stove, and found that it has been discontinued (of course it has), and a replacement door was going to cost close to $400 (of course it was). I decided to give our local stove shop a try, mostly because it’s called Holy Smoke and anybody who names their stove business Holy Smoke is clearly my people. For once my completely logic-less thought process was correct, because the owner is the nicest guy ever, and offered to build us a custom door for only $150. We picked it up last week, and look how pretty:
It’s now 80 degrees in my house. Of course, I can’t enjoy it because my anxiety over paying the electric bill has been replaced with anxiety over the house burning down. I spent Saturday afternoon alternating between going outside to make sure the roof wasn’t on fire and asking Dave to go outside and confirm that the roof wasn’t on fire. I’ve been averaging about four hours of sleep, because I’m too busy playing the “was that a floorboard creaking or the sound of the attic igniting” game.
Dave keeps assuring me that there’s nothing to worry about, and I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can enjoy the fact that it’s 18 degrees outside and I’m in a T-shirt. We didn’t turn the heater on at all yesterday. I think that means I can buy myself this, right?