on Tiny House Living

Last week I joined a class on downsizing. We get a weekly lesson by email, and there's a forum on Google + for discussion with others in the class. The thrust of the class is to lighten the load of what one owns, with an eye to eventually being able to live "tiny."
Have you heard of the tiny house movement? It fascinates me. The idea behind it is to "live smaller," leaving a smaller footprint on the environment, spend much less money on housing, utilities, etc., and to be surrounded by less stuff.

Sometimes, as I've written before, I feel that my stuff owns me rather than the other way around.
Anyway, tiny house living means living in a house smaller than 400 sq. ft. Think that sounds small? Many people who go for this lifestyle actually live in homes on wheels measuring less than 200 sq. ft.
Many communities have zoning rules with minimum square footage requirements. To get around this, tiny house folks in cities with such limited zoning place their houses on trailers with wheels, making them mobile homes, which are not subject to regular zoning rules.
There's a television show on Monday nights at 10 p.m. called Tiny House Nation, which visits a new tiny house project each week, helping the people build their home and downsize their belongings. I've seen married couples with children move into 192 sq. ft. homes. Crazy!
I figure if they can do that, I can live alone in 400 sq. ft. Well, with a pooch, a kitty and a tank of fish.
What I want is a small plot of land, ideally on water, but in the woods would be my second choice. Some people put their tiny homes in somebody's backyard, tapping into their water and electric, but I want my own space.
The really tiny houses use lofts for sleeping space. I figure that as I'm a woman of a certain age, the time is coming when I won't want to climb a ladder into a loft, then squat down to get to my bed.
I wouldn't mind a second floor bedroom if I can have a staircase, possibly with lots of storage underneath. Dormers and skylights can make the ceiling high enough to walk under.
Another thing they do in really tiny houses is use Murphy beds, cleverly disguised as desks or book cases during the day, in the living room. Sounds like too much trouble to me, though it's pretty cool use of space.
Back to my fantasy home. Downstairs I want a great room comprising my living room, dining room and kitchen space. I want a fireplace to heat with. I want a bathroom big enough to have separate toilet/sink/shower rather than the "wet room" many really tiny houses have, where everything is in one little space, and you practically have to stand in the toilet to take a shower. Easy to clean though, I bet.
I want a washer/dryer -- perhaps apartment sized stack-able. And a usable kitchen space. Not large. I'm not a gourmet cook. And I want a nice porch to sit on and enjoy the outside.
I'd like a solar panel to supplement my energy use. I want propane, to be off the grid. And septic if possible. County or city water is more sensible than trucked in, so I want that. And the possibility of a "green roof" to help insulate and gather rain water for use watering a garden, etc.
Sounds great, doesn't it?
You can go to You Tube and watch a short movie called "Tiny," about a guy who builds his own tiny house.
So, to make this happen, I will have to get rid of A LOT of things. I've inherited stuff from three women, and my children inherited stuff from their dad. It's all in my house.
When we moved here from the big house we had before, we dumped about 1/3-1/2 of our stuff.
I'm going to need to dump 90 percent to go tiny.
Kids, come get your stuff!

My timeline is when my youngest graduates from high school, or 3.5 years. That gives my older kids time to establish their own places, where they can take their stuff.
I'll only keep my absolute favorite things. I read that if something doesn't fill you with joy, get rid of it.
And a good friend once told me that memories are inside of us, not inside of the stuff we inherit from others. Why be tied down by the belongings of dead people?
So that's my plan! To go "tiny" in a few years. After all, I'm the Shabby Housekeeper. I don't like keeping house, so less house can only be good for my mental health, right?

If this sounds interesting to you, go check it out. Just Google it, and you'll find plenty of info.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this!

on whether or not it's a good thing to meet your celebrity heroes.

Have you ever had the opportunity to meet one of your celebrity heroes? It can be exciting, but isn't necessarily a good thing.

I've never been one to be bowled over by fame, or to go gaga over a star. Stars are interesting people in that they lead what seems from the outside to be interesting lives, and I wouldn't mind spending a few minutes over a cup of coffee talking to a few of them. But sometimes, it's best not to meet someone you admire from afar based on their acting, or singing, or how well they play a musical instrument, or write. You might be disappointed by the actual human behind the image.
When I was in college I had a favorite author. I won't name her, because when I got to meet her it was a shocking disappointment. She did a book signing in my hometown of Dayton, Ohio, and I sat eagerly in the bookstore, avidly awaiting the moment I'd lay eyes on the woman who had provided me with endless hours of reading enjoyment. I imagined what she would be like based on the wonderful characters she created. How could she be anything but wonderful herself? I was about 20, and naive. The writer entered the room, and I was thrilled. I had her new book, which I planned to have her sign. She stepped up to the microphone to address the small crowd -- and proceeded to complain for 10 minutes about her flight, her hotel room, the traffic, in short, everything. I thought it a bit rude, but decided maybe she was just tired, and got in line to have her autograph my precious book.
When my turn came, I probably gushed a bit about how many hours of enjoyment she'd provided me with, and how I enjoyed the world and characters she'd created. Instead of the instant connection I'd been dreaming of, she basically grunted, "Yeah, what's your name?" She signed the book, which I still have, and moved on to the next fan.

 Thud. Clunk. Off the pedestal she fell. And that was the end of hero worship for me. I decided then and there I'd rather know as little about the actors and writers I admired as possible, in case they all turned out to be jerks.
Years passed. I was married, and working at Channel 6 in Columbus. My job was to point a camera at the news and weather anchors, and sometimes to set up the television programs and commercial carts. Occasionally I met a celebrity. I met Jack Hannah back before he was Jungle Jack. I met Dave and Wendy from the restaurant chain. She really did have red hair, but didn't wear it in those braids. I was in an adjoining bathroom stall with Mariette Hartley. They were all perfectly pleasant, and polite to me in my role as crew.
But one incident stands out from the rest, and it didn't happen at work. Jim Neighbors was in town, and was supposed to sing a concert with Patsy Cline. He was booked onto the noon news show at Channel 6, and I was looking forward to meeting him because I'd always enjoyed Gomer Pyle as a kid. Just before the show, however, we received word that he'd cancelled the show and the concert because he was suffering from a light case of laryngitis.

Oh, well.
That night I met my new husband downtown at Grant Medical Center, where he was doing a medical school rotation. We were going out on one of our very rare dinner dates. Rare because medical students have no time, and because we had little money. I think it was our anniversary. We decided to go over to German Village, to Max & Erma's. He dropped me off, and went to park. The street was virtually deserted. I stood in front of the restaurant, waiting. As I did, I noticed a lone man walking down the sidewalk toward me. As he drew near, I realized it was Jim Neighbors.
Being the imp then I still am now, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, then told him I worked at Channel 6, and asked him why he hadn't showed up at the noon news show that day.
Well, the poor guy was terribly embarrassed, and said his agent was supposed to cancel for him.
I felt bad for teasing him! At that point, my husband walked up, and I introduced the two men (yeah, I did, as if I KNEW Jim Neighbors) and then told Mr. Neighbors that I was kidding. His agent had cancelled, and I was just a camera operator. He, fortunately, had a good sense of humor about it. Then, realizing he was alone in a strange town, I invited him to join us for dinner. He graciously accepted, and we went in. The next hour and a half was such fun! People came up and asked him for autographs, and he was as nice as could be to them. He entertained us with stories about other celebrities of whom we'd heard, such as Lonnie Anderson and Burt Reynolds. Once someone looked at us and asked us if we were "anybody!"
Then he insisted on paying for our dinner, and invited us to visit him on his macadamia plantation in Hawaii. We never made it there.
I wonder what he'd do if I showed up there now?
So this goes to prove that, like anyone else, some celebs are nice people just like anybody else, while others are snarky curmudgeons, like the writer I so admired.
So, do you still want to meet your favorite celeb? Who is it? Have you met a favorite celeb? How did that go? I'd love to know!

My personal five

I've neglected my blog since Thanksgiving. So sorry! But today I'm imbued with the spirit of the New Year, and have decided to blog out my thoughts.
My entire family rang in the New Year with disgusting cases of the flu. Woot!
So we've all been sitting around, phlegmming, with plenty of time on our hands. And tissues on the floor.
And DayQuil in our guts. And germs everywhere. Stay away!
We've watched movies, played video games, read books, neglected housework, and snarled at each other for next to no reason at all.
Ah, family!
It's allowed me a lot of time for thought.
And here is what I've been thinking about: Getting back to my Daily Five.
My Daily Five is a philosophy I came up with a few years ago, and haven't been following much lately. The idea is that each day I must do something, no matter how small, to address each of five important areas of my life. These include: SELF; WORK; HOME; FAMILY; and FINANCES.
Under "SELF" comes physical health, spirituality, emotional well-being, romance life, self-improvement of any kind and education. Whatever I might deem just for me, or a bit selfish -- which I feel we all deserve.
Under "WORK" comes my professional life. The job I have and how I can do it better; future career plans; possibly continuing or advancing education; training I'd like to get; and in my case, writing on the side for fun or for pay.
Under "HOME" comes my physical living situation. This includes maintenance, cleaning, decorating, de-cluttering, and anything else that might come under the roof -- pun intended -- of my house.
Under "FAMILY" comes all I consider my own. This includes my children, their children, their spouses, my siblings, their spouses and children, my dad, my extended family, and my friends. How can I improve and maintain these relationships? Relationships I can't live without...and which must be nurtured regularly to flourish.
Finally, under "FINANCES" come all the areas pertaining to how the heck I plan to pay for all the rest, in perpetuity. This crosses over into "Job," and "Home," when you consider that I'd like to own my own again someday. Also, I'm over 50, so I have to wonder how and when I'll be able to retire. (Never?)
So how, on a daily basis, can I make "progress" on any or all of these areas?
Easy! Here's an example of a typical day in my life.
6:30 a.m. Rise and shine. Stumble into kitchen. Make coffee. Outen dog, feed dog and cats. Drink coffee. Read.
7:00 a.m. Nag kids out of bed.
7:30 a.m. Drive my son to school. Come home. Shower. Dress. Head to work.
9 a.m.- 5 p.m. Work. Deal with all aspects of work, as well as with family appointments such as doc, dentist, hair, etc. as possible and necessary from phone.
5 p.m. head home.
5:30 p.m. Grocery shopping once a week...a labor of love! Once home, outen dog, feed dog and cats, feed family.
6 p.m. several nights a week: Coffee with friends. (free group therapy!)
7 p.m. several nights a week several months a year: Play practice. Maybe with assorted of my kids. This is play time for us, and serves as a great emotional outlet, as well as being good physical exercise if dancing is involved. (laugh it up...I lost 15 pounds during my last play!)
9 p.m. Time to go home and relax, read, help with homework, watch a movie with kids, maybe do a household chore or two. Write if I'm working on something personal.
11:30 p.m. Bed. Sweet dreams!
House cleaning is a group effort, done every Sunday. Daily tasks such as dishes and laundry are seen to by all, and resented by all!  But they get done eventually.
So where, in that long day, can I fit my five? The answer is, everywhere!
I'll use today, a Sunday, as an example of seeing to my five.
I've had the flu for days, so I've neglected pretty much everything. This morning I got up feeling a bit better, so I took a shower, washed my face and gathered my laundry. I picked up dirty dishes and took them to the kitchen. I cared for the animals as usual..they don't want to hear about us being sick. Then I sat down with my coffee and a good book, and vegged.
Later in the day, I dealt with the matter of switching my insurance to USAA, an excellent company I'm eligible for because my dad is a Marine. This move saved me quite a bit annually. (This is not a sponsored commercial, unfortunately!)
Then I made a simple -- and I mean simple! -- meal for all the sicko kiddos, and decided to sit down and write this blog.
Note: Most Sundays I'd have gone to church (flu!) which would count toward my spiritual health, under the SELF heading.
So it's not yet 4 p.m., and I've done positive things for SELF (showering, gathering laundry, drinking coffee and enjoying book), HOME (gathering laundry, picking up dishes), FAMILY (making a meal, picking up dishes, gathering laundry and chatting with my siblings via text, which I hadn't mentioned previously), FINANCES (switching my insurance and saving money). The only area I haven't addressed today is work, but I'm on call at the paper if they need me, and after all, it is Sunday. Plus, I believe this idea could be worked into a sweet column, so there's WORK!
You see that the things I do for my five aren't big and dramatic? Well, the insurance switch was, but that's unusual. You also see how many of the areas cross over into each other. This is natural, as we don't live in a vacuum, and my five would also cross into the fives of people around me if they were playing this same game.
It's easy, and it makes me feel good at the end of the day.
So think about taking up your own personal five, and let me know how it goes for you.
By the way, your five areas may  not be the same as mine. Just pick the five areas of your life that seem the most important to you. And five is enough, by the way. Don't go nuts. You're more likely to succeed if you keep it manageable.
One, two, three, four, five . . . start!

On Memories of Putting up the Family Christmas Tree

One of the most cherished traditions of the Christmas season is bringing home the Christmas tree. I remember as a child my whole family would pile into the old station wagon and head for the tree lot in town. Traditionally we didn’t put the tree up until Christmas Eve (Mom’s rules!) but we bought it a couple of weeks before that each year to have a good selection. We’d all jump out of the car and scatter into the dark recesses of the tree lot, and cries of, “Come look at this one, Mom! Come see this one, Dad!” would be heard from all directions. There were six of us, plus Mom and Dad. We’d argue over this tree or that, searching for the fattest, fullest, tallest tree on the lot. But ultimately it was Mom who had the final say. She always chose a big, Blue Spruce. Our home had high ceilings, so it was usually over eight feet tall. Dad and the tree lot guy would wrestle the prickly monster onto the roof of the Chevy wagon – not as high up as today’s wagon, the mini-van – and tie it down. Then off home we’d go, singing Christmas carols and fighting over prime seating.

Back then you didn’t worry about seat belts, so generally the wayback was laid down, and all of us kids would crowd into the back on piles of blankets and bounce around like jumping beans all the way home.

At home, Dad would place the cut end of the tree into a bucket of water, which he kept religiously filled until the big day came and that magnificent tree came inside and was ceremoniously shoved and screwed into the old-fashioned, red and green metal stand, accompanied by much cussing, and eager “help” from us kids. Nothing skins a knuckle like the screws on a Christmas tree stand, let me tell you.

Then Dad would stand it up and one of us kids would belly under there and fill the stand with water. Dad would then anchor the tree to the wall on two sides with fishing line – our old Siamese cat, Sam, was a climber. The story of the year the tree came down and many antique ornaments shattered is often retold even today.

Then all the kids would run pell mell up to the attic and bring down the box of ornaments and the box of Christmas doo dads. And somebody else would carry down the box with the family nativity, inherited from Aunt Mildred. I always carried the box with my very own nativity, given to me on my twelfth birthday by my godmother, Aunt Priscilla. That nativity still goes up every year to this day. The first thing I always did -- and still do! -- when I opened that box was to sniff deeply of that good, German rubber. Ahhhh. That smells like Christmas, even today. 

We’d thunder back downstairs with our treasures, and open the boxes on the living room floor while Dad struggled with the strands of fat, colored tree lights. New words were learned on such occasions.

After the lights were up, Mom and Dad would sit on the couch enjoying a little Christmas cheer while we kids unloaded the ornaments. Each child was allowed to hang his or her own, personal ornaments, and how we cherished each one! Our Grandma Mullen gave us each a new one most years, so we had a nice collection. My personal favorite was the pink, velvet elephant perched on a blue circus ball.

Dad hung the colored, glass balls, just so, with Mom offering little bits of advice from the couch.

“There’s a blank spot over there, Gene. No, just a bit higher. There you go!” she’d say, smiling serenely. Good eggnog, I think in retrospect.

Finally it would be time for the angel. This was a sore spot with me, as two of my little sisters had angels which alternated years as the tree topper. One had yellow hair, the other, pink. Their dresses were made of burlap. As the oldest, it was hard for me to swallow that special privilege going to them. A sad confession, but there you are. It was probably character building.

(My mother eventually did, out of pity, get me an angel. She had a red, polka-dotted, cardboard skirt and hard, plastic hair painted gold. She held candles in her hands, and had very seductive eyes. However, she didn't make it to the top of a tree until I got married, and was ousted when my first daughter was born, and was given a lovely, Precious Moments tree-topper angel by her God-mother.)

At last, the tree would be done. The traditional decorations, such as the plastic and red velvet mistletoe ball and the odd, dry-cleaner-bag wreath made by Grandma Mullen; the candles shaped like Santa and Mrs. Claus which got a little stumpier every year and could never be burned; the bowl of silver and blue balls which shed fake snow; the little, wooden angel family representing all of us; and the statue of the Holy Family, were placed around the house.

We’d all drink hot chocolate and sit in the darkened living room, listening to the Firestone Christmas albums playing on the LP player, staring at the tree, and enjoying a rare moment of familial harmony.

Those were good times. I’ve tried to carry them through for my own children, and we have incorporated some of my childhood traditions and some of their dad’s. And we’ve made up some of our own. The tree goes up Thanksgiving weekend, and we have all the fun of admiring the ornaments and enjoying that lovely, fresh tree – I prefer a fir – through mid-January. But the fetching of the Chlovechok tree is another story for another day. Merry Christmas from the Chlovechok family!

A Funny Thanksgiving Story

Ah, family get-togethers: The petri-dish of hilarious memories and embarrassing tales that never, never die.
Nothing will beat the year my brother, Alex, set the stuffing on fire. (Maybe I'll re-post that tomorrow.) But we had a funny thing happen this Thanksgiving.
I always cook the turkey according to my dad's recipe, which calls for an hour-and-a-half of browning time on each side before tenting the bird with aluminum foil to allow it to cook out the final few hours without over-browning.
Today I cooked the turkey at my brother's house. He has a nice stove with a digital control for the oven and timer. When the timer went off after the second browning session at around 2:30, and it was time to tent the bird with foil, I found my brother-in-law (who has requested he remain unnamed) turning off the timer.
I tented it the turkey, and then set the timer for three hours before heading up to take a nap in a spare room.
At 5:30 the timer went off, and I asked one of the men lurking around the house sniffing the air to remove it from the oven. He did so, and I took off the foil, to discover the timer hadn't popped up. The bird was a bit pale, too. And the final, damning evidence of trouble, we noticed the oven...and the bird...weren't hot any more.
Oh oh.
My bro-in-law sheepishly said, "Um, I think when I turned off the timer (three hours earlier, remember) I actually turned off the oven."
Whoops.
So the bird had been languishing in the oven for three hours, making no forward progress.
Fortunately, Kelsey and her beau, Jeremy, had brought another turkey to deep fry out in the yard. And we'd planned to eat late anyway. So I turned the oven back on, and Mr. Turkey resumed roasting.
We were hungry, so we decided to go ahead and eat the pies then! And I think this was a great decision, because I'm usually too full from dinner to enjoy the pie. This year, the pie was the featured first course.
At 9 p.m. we all sat down to a late, but fabulous, Thanksgiving dinner.
And it was delicious!
Happy Thanksgiving!

On This, the Eve of the Anniversary of my Mother's Death.

Thirteen years ago tonight, we got the call we'd been dreading -- and then resignedly awaiting --  for three years, ever since Mom was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Ironically, she was the one making the call.
"I'm going to Hospice," she breathed strenuously. "I'm calling to say goodbye. I love you."
"Mom! I love you, too. You wait for me! I'm coming!" I cried. I gathered my brother, my children, my husband, and we made the two-and-a-half hour trip to Dayton. It was after 10 p.m. when we arrived. Amazingly, as we pulled into the parking lot of Hospice of Dayton, so did my sister from Chicago and her family. My sister and brother from Columbus beat us there.
All six of us made it in time to spend Mom's last few hours by her side.
Only our sister who lived in Dayton, who had spent so much of her time during those years helping Dad care for Mom, wasn't there at the very end. She and Dad had gone to rest when we got there, thinking there would be more time.
We always think that, don't we?
And it seemed that Mom couldn't let go in front of them, as if doing so would somehow let them down since they'd spent so much time and effort keeping her alive and as comfortable as possible. So while they were there, she endured.
When they went home to rest, she began to let go. I've heard this happens all the time.
We sat around that bed, with our husbands keeping watch, and sang her favorite songs while she smiled and listened with her eyes closed.
We told all the old, family stories and  jokes.
Her breathing grew slower, but she hung on.
"Mom," we finally whispered, "It's okay to let go. It's okay to go now."
She sighed. It was okay.
And at the end, she opened her eyes and looked toward the bottom of the bed and whispered, "Daddy . . . "

I looked, but couldn't see the grandfather I'd never met. But I believe her beloved father came to escort her on her way. Why not?
She breathed her last, and we weren't sure. The nurse confirmed she was gone. And my brothers went to get Dad and our sister.
And you know, if she had to die, it was a good death. She didn't seem to suffer. We were with her. It could have been worse.
You'll know what the days that followed were like, if you've ever lost someone close. And we all stood by each other, and by Dad. We all still stand by each other 13 years later.
Tonight, we've chatted about Mom on our sibling text chain. Memories, jokes, silly things only we get.
We'll all call Dad tonight or tomorrow, to reminisce with him.
God blessed us, and continues to do so, because he gave us parents who taught us to care, even when it hurts.
Mom, you did a good job. Thanks for teaching us to follow in your footsteps.

On ... I'll give you something to worry about!

What, me? Worry?

Remember the guy from Mad Magazine? He always said, “What, me? Worry?” with a big grin on his face. I liked that cartoon guy. Good attitude. 

These days we tend to worry about everything, whether we can do a darned thing about it or not.  I’m often guilty.

Lately, people have been worrying a lot about the terrible disease spreading in Africa called Ebola. And it’s a bad one, for sure.

But for right now, at least, it isn’t freely spreading in the U.S. 

It’s contagious through body fluids, so to get it, you need to come into contact with the body fluids of an infected person. Fortunately, that’s not very likely for most of us right at this moment, in this place. That could change, and if it does, I’m sure there will be all sorts of advice on how we can protect ourselves. 

In fact, I was at a hospital today, and there are now signs posted here and there asking people specifically whether they've traveled in Africa in Ebola-infected countries, and explicitly depicting symptoms. 

Now, if you throw up, get diarrhea or a fever, but you HAVE NOT been to Africa lately, and you HAVE NOT been exposed to someone who has, then you MOST LIKELY do NOT have Ebola. You've got an intestinal bug or something, so take a Tylenol and chill, ok?

If you start throwing up or pooping blood, well, you're in trouble, though it's still probably not Ebola. Get help. 

So, got it? For now, you most likely don't need to worry about getting Ebola in the U.S. 

Meanwhile, there’s something else you DO need to – and can! – protect yourself against.

It is a disease you need to worry about right here and right now. It’s Influenza – the flu. It kills a lot of people right here in the U.S. every year, and not only the very young or very old or immuno-compromised people, as you might think. It sometimes, inexplicably, kills the young and healthy.

But guess what? You can protect yourself and your family right now by getting a simple, inexpensive flu shot. You can get one at your doctor’s office, at a local pharmacy, at the health department in your county. 

I just can't get my head around people who are afraid of getting something as unlikely as Ebola, but won't get a flu shot to protect themselves against a real-life killer right here at home. Sheesh! SHEESH!

When I was a kid, I'd often worry about other people's business. I'd worry about whether I was doing more chores than my sisters, for example. Heh. I remember my dad catching me behaving in this rather unbecoming fashion and saying, "I'll give you something to worry about!"

Well, I'm a grown-up now, and I know there are things to worry about . . . thing more important than who is doing the most chores. And things that are in my own reality, close to home. 

Don’t wait until it’s too late. Get yourself and your family vaccinated against the flu now, while the getting is good.

I got mine last week! Ain't I the bomb?