Teeny Tiny Houses

When we built our house in 1987, people expressed concern over it because it was so small with only two bedrooms and one and a half baths. 

The concern was resale value (but we had no intention of selling, we told everyone and they just shook their heads). You never know what might happen. Well, that's true. And you never know what might not happen, either.

Our house finished was 1698 square feet. Now, granted, this was when all the McMansions were being built, the bigger the better. I mean, so what if you couldn't pay for it, right?

We have since added a sun room, bringing the square footage to just under 2000 square feet. Still considered a "cottage" in the Victorian era, and also for a lot of people today.

But now, ladies and gentlemen the challenge is to live in what they are calling tiny houses. Like a square foot, maybe. 

Seriously, they range from nearly no square feet to no square feet. Like, 148 square feet to 450 square feet. My kitchen is 275 square feet. It's an eat in, but still. That gives you some idea, especially if you've tried to squeeze in more than three people at the same time around the stove/sink area.

And here's the kicker: These tiny doll houses cost up to $100,000.00 to build. That's right. Count the zeros. 

Now, I am a little claustrophobic, I admit. And thinking about living in a whole house possibly smaller than my kitchen with Husband, Daughter, 3 cats and a dog makes me short of breath. And the article I read mentions lots of cats and dogs in the home. 

My hat is off to these people, though. Good for them. I guess.

But me, I like just a little elbow room.

I bet they don't cuss the cat much, though. Ain't room enough to cuss a - well, you know.



*This blog brought to you by the worlds "square feet"

Mountain Heritage Periodical

Canton Family Life, Woodstock Family Life Magazines: Book Review

Shrinking

As many of you know, my grandfather owned a grocery store till I was seven. I could run the cash register. I knew what things cost. A piece of bubble gum was a penny. A candy bar was 5 cents. A pack of chewing gum was also a nickel. 

What has brought all this to mind is Sunday, I did something I should not have done.

I ate an ice cream sandwich. As I got it out of Mother's freezer, I noticed how much smaller it was than I remembered. I felt sorta like I was eating Mr. and Mrs. Ice Cream Sandwich's child. I mentioned this to Mother and she said this was the normal size now. However; you could buy little ones (!). Mr. and Mrs. Ice Cream Sandwich's baby??

Have you noticed that a stick of gum is smaller now? So are candy bars. And the 5 cent candy bar is now over a dollar. What there is of it.

A nickel bag of potato chips, same. I don't think you can buy bubble gum by the piece anymore.

Other things are smaller, too. A loaf of bread, for instance. The slices are smaller. 

Even newspapers are smaller. Remember how you used to have to stretch your arms way out to hold it to read? Not so much anymore. Plus, you have to be very lucky to even find a newspaper anymore. I am so grateful our local paper keeps publishing.

So, the real question is this: If everything junk food wise is smaller, why is everyone still getting bigger? And not in a good way either.

Well, our wallets are slimmer. 

That's something, I guess.

Mail and Stuff

My last blog was about hormones and hot flashes. One sharp eyed friend noticed the advertisement immediately following that blog was for a book entitled, "Why Men Leave Their Women".

Well.

I was coming home the other day and I noticed the car in front of me had their windows down. I assumed their air was broken, because it was 88 degrees. Then they shot out their arm in a left turn signal, so I figured their turn signal was broken, too. Except they kept on going, sometimes waving their hand around like they were drying their nails. In just a few, they flew their arm up in a right turn signal. I knew they weren't turning right as there were no right turns to make. And when they finally did turn, their signal worked just fine.

Made me wonder: were they too dumb to realize what they were doing? Had they never been taught manual turn signals? What?

When I got home, Husband greeted me with, "You are never going to believe what happened."

Now, at my house, that usually isn't followed by "I won a million dollars," or "The movies called and want to buy the rights to one of your books, " or, even, "I found a five dollar bill in an old jacket."

Nope. What happened was the mail carrier left a small box and two envelopes at the door. They left the envelopes on top of the small box. Our previous mail carrier, who was darn near perfect, would have slapped a rubber band around those envelopes to keep them secure, but the new one did not. So, when Husband picked up the box, the envelopes slid off. Right to the porch floor and through the crack between the planks, thusly: 

Now, I could have stood there all day (and so could have Husband) and tried to drop something between those planks and never succeeded. And realize, this wasn't one envelope but two. Wow.

So, not knowing if it was junk  mail or something important, he decided he had to crawl under the porch floor.

It is about six inches off the ground where they dropped, which meant he had to go clean to the far end (to your left)and crawl the whole length of the porch with a stick to swipe at the envelopes till he could pull them toward him.

I had two beautimous photos of Husband, one of him before and one after. But they disappeared into mysterious cyberspace, not to be found. He was dressed in a fishing hat, a long sleeve flannel shirt, old britches which were tucked under his socks, gloves, goggles and old shoes. So, just take a moment and savor what's in your imagination.

He was successful, junk mail and a bill.

One has to wonder if it was worth it.

Har-Moans

Seriously, I've been burning up for years. Since I went off the tiny dab of hormones last October I was on for a dozen years, I've been sweatin' like a sinner at revival. I just thought I had hot flashes before.

The worst is when I start to go to sleep. As soon as I start drifting, I go into a hot flash. Not just the first time, but two or three times before I can sleep.

During the day it's several times. If I get tense, I have a hot flash. If I get competitive in a card game and it's nearing the end, I have a hot flash. If I eat or drink something hot, I have a hot flash. If there is no air stirring, I have a hot flash. Sometimes, I have a hot flash just for the heck of it.

The doctor suggested herbal treatment when I had my yearly examination in May.

Tried them? Raise your hand. Can't? Arm stuck to your side with sweat? That's what I thought.

So I called the doc's office today. I was told he'd review my record and see if a "compound" of some mysterious stuff, which isn't supposed to post a danger like real hormones, would be helpful. The nurse said she'd call me back this afternoon.

Which she did. He had reviewed my records and come up with a formula that would be mixed at the drug store.

"Would you like me to call this in now?" The nurse asked. She said it real serious-like.

"Yes, I would." I can be serious, too.

A little while later the phone rang. It was my pharmacy. "Is this Kathrine?"

"Yes, it is."

"Dr So&so has called in a compound for you. Would you like us to fill this now?"

She also used a very serious voice. Sorta like, "Mr. President would you like to push the red button now" kinda voice. Or, "You realize when you sign  your  name you will owe a million dollars on your car. Here, on the dotted line." kinda voice.

I began to feel a little nervous. I mean, am I being sacrificed for the good of mankind or something?

What the heck. "Yes, I sure would."

"You may pick it up after five tomorrow. It will be a 90 day supply and it will be $68.00." She didn't add in a plain brown wrapper, but I won't be a bit surprised.

"My insurance won't cover this?"

"No. No, it won't."

Hmmmm.

I thanked her and hung up.

But I admit, I'm a little spooked.

I feel like I'm on a "Mission Impossible" episode.

Hope it's not me that blows up in sixty seconds.

More will be revealed.

Meanwhile, is it hot in here, or is it just me?

I thought so. 

I Hate Meeces to Pieces

We  have a new visitor in our house. It is a  mouse. A dirty, rotten, stinking mouse. 

Yesterday the cats went berserk trying to catch the stinker. It hid behind the bookcase, then finally ran to hide behind the desk. 

After we herded all the four leggeds upstairs, Husband set traps here and there, hoping to find a nice dead rodent this morning.

Not so. 

Husband set about disarming all springs this morning so everyone could come downstairs without getting a tootsie trapped.

Here are Frost and Mimi yesterday. They had been crouched for a long time. Eventually, they chilled and just stared at the mouse under the bookcase:

And of course, the ever vigilant, mighty Maine Coon hot on the mouse trail:

AHEM!

So, anyway. The scary thing is when the cats came down, none of them acted like there had ever been a mouse in the house.

When we came home from the ever increasing doctor's appointments today, I coulda sworn I smelled rat.

 Husband sniffed, shrugged and said, "Possibly."

Daughter just looked at me.

No one that abides in this abode except me can smell stuff worth a tee wattly toot.

I may be just a wee bit paranoid as we once had a mouse die in the vent and we had to live with it because we couldn't get to it.

Lordee.

Or maybe the same buddy that dropped him off came back by and picked him up.

We can only hope.