Dear People Who Write Articles Called Dear People Who Live In Fancy Tiny Houses

Dear People Who Live In Fancy Tiny Houses

I am totally going to respond to some of the topics in this post, lol.

Do you actually love living in a fancy tiny house?

Most of the time, I actually do! Mine isn’t fancy though. Mine was built a long time ago and is better described as “quaint,” “vintage,” “crusty,” “dusty,” and “being inexorably eaten by both plumbagos and termites.”

What the hell happens when your tiny house partner farts Mexican food farts, huh?

If you are a grownup: Do the decent thing and ignore it.
If you are a grownup and the fact cannot be ignored: Have an in-depth discussion about stool quality and tell yourselves that the ability to candidly discuss poop is an excellent indicator of the future success of your relationship.
If you are a kid: Shriek, giggle, attempt to shift blame to someone else, get into a fight about the blame-shifting, make a huge deal of it for the next three hours.
If you are a dog: Fart right next to Meg when she’s trapped working in her office. Look confused and hurt when she sends you out of the room. She is super unfair, what the hell.

Seriously, where do you put your shit?

Cabinets, cupboards, The Gorm, a variety of shelves covered with copious amounts of dust, the good shed, the crappy shed, and Goodwill. It’s ideal to let a bunch of random crap sit on every horizontal surface in the house, especially the dog crate in the office and the workbench that doubles as a kitchen counter, under the deluded impression that someday we are going to find somewhere tidy to put it.

And I know your house isn’t that clean all of the time.

My house is clean none of the time. I have a cute doormat that says “Home” but I could do with one that says “I can explain.”

In your pictures, it looks like you only own a tiny sofa, several throw blankets & pillow, one cooking pan, one antique book and one framed photo of you laughing in front of your tiny house.

We own no sofa. However we own enough dog hair to stuff a sofa, four pillows of which three are not presently mangled by Fly, and a trundle bed thing Josh insists on occupying in the most unintuitive and uncomfortable-looking position possible.

Hey. Do you have privacy in your tiny house?

You just seal yourself in the bathroom and pretend to be taking the world’s longest and most satisfying dump until someone bangs on the door demanding his or her own turn in the bathroom pretending to be taking the world’s longest and most satisfying dump.

Don’t you ever want to turn toward your lover or spawn and shout, “Get out! Get out of my tiny house!”

Yes. Kiddos, if you act feral in my tiny house, it’s INTO THE WILDERNESS WITH YOU. And by into the wilderness, I mean moping around the front porch, burdened under the weight of injustice, searching for bugs to be scared of and asking every 5 minutes if they can come back in yet.

What about guests?

We have lots of guests!

Where do you put your guests?

Lots of places! Like, um… outside…

Can friends and family even visit you?

Just kidding no they can’t.

Be honest: You just want to live out your life like a Wes Anderson character, don’t you? You want to be some eccentric full of whimsy who doesn’t need modern tools or resources to live a fulfilling life.

Not gonna lie, this is pretty much the ultimate goal.

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Food Reviews: Fake Cheese 3

There’s been a dearth of fake cheese here at the TTH lately, on account of it’s inconvenient to come by. We do most of our shopping at the world’s only good Trader Joe’s store. Its location is a closely guarded secret for Josh and I to enjoy, while the rest of you suffer through cramped, suffocating Trader Joes, where the cheery, surf’s-up decor functions as an attempt to make you forget that you’re slogging through shopping hell in order to get your hands on an overpriced store brand and at least thirty items you want but will never find. While Trader Joe’s does sell non-dairy cheeses, I’ve been warned away from them by vegans who know everything, so I haven’t bothered to try. Whole Foods is obviously where you go if your local Trader Joe’s experience wasn’t hellish enough, and other than that, nowhere around here sold fake cheese. So no faux dairy for me lately, just a lot of crying about the unfairness and social permeation of milk products to friends and family members who are resignedly tired of hearing about it.

Until last night. Last night, we went to Vons.

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The Unwise Demise of Angelina Stormchicken

It’s been a busy March and April!

I’ll try to blog about a few of this spring’s exciting life events and updates, to catch everyone up on the incredible world of me. First newsworthy event:

Fly the baby border collie murdered Angelina, the Silver Wyandotte chicken. This was partly due to tragic chicken coop structural failure and partly due to the fact that Fly believes you should approach every problem as savagely as you can possibly manage. Toys? SHRED THEM! Jet? BITE HIS FACE! Sheep? BITE THEIR FACES TOO! Neighbor dog minding its own business? COMPLETELY LOSE YOUR SHIT! Unsupervised chicken? DESTROY HER!

This post contains curse words and vomit. You have been warned. 

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Tiny House Living: No really, for real

I recently ran across a link entitled, This Thrifty Family Of Four Makes The Most Of A One-Bedroom Home. This Is GENIUS! 

Genius, you say!

Since I’m also a family of (sometimes) four living in a home which is in fact 22 square feet smaller than the home featured, I had to click the clickbait. Besides, the article’s title implied that families living in tiny homes are clever and frugal. I’m not actually either of these things to a remarkable degree, but I enjoy digital media which allows me to mentally associate myself with people who are, so I was eager to read.

Ultimately, the article disappointingly failed to revolutionize or reflect my own TTH life, which is always the case with these things. To inject a dose of reality into the whole Tiny Tiny House cultural zeitgeist, allow me introduce you to the TTH Mythology episode of this blog. TTH Myths: Fact or Fiction? You’ll never believe how this witty and devastatingly attractive couple lives with three dogs, two stepkids, and several spiders in their tiny tiny house!

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An Inspiring Treatise on Jogging

This was written almost exactly a year ago, when I was job training for three months in Colorado. However it has only lived on Facebook until now, so in order to preserve it with the rest of my blog-ish writing, I will repost it here.

The Inspiring Treatise on Jogging is dedicated this time around to the lovely Georgia, who has become one of those people who enjoy running. At least, she will be one of those people until such time as she discovers scuba diving, cross-country skiing, disc golf, competitive international lawn darts, or squash, which will then completely and abruptly absorb all the faculties of her ferocious attention.

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Things I’ve learned after graduation

As of today, I have officially paid off all of my student loans. Hooray! It feels good and it’s a big occasion for me, as well as an occasion which prompts me to reflect on the experience of my education as a whole, six years after graduation.

I have a bachelor of science degree in graphic design and a degree minor in studio art. I don’t work in graphic design or art, and I sometimes worry that I’m a disappointment to everyone who helped guide me through the path of my education. Even when I know personally that I’ve made the right choice for my life, I experience occasional moments of stress when I feel a disconnect between the expectation that I should be what I studied for, and the reality that I’m not.

So what happened? Why am I not a graphic designer?

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Christmas Bonus: Goose Patrol

Robin, my boss at the ranch, texted me out of the blue. “The cemetery wants us to do goose patrol,” she said. “Do some research.”

Over the years I’ve worked as her assistant, I have learned that it’s far better to make an attempt at whatever she wants, rather than staring at her with a blank look of dumbfounded ignorance until she gets annoyed. This one, however, had me stumped. “Goose patrol?” I sent back.

“Yes,” Robin replied. “There are businesses. Google.”

No less confused, I headed to Google, and the first result I came up with was an article about geese being used as watchdogs/alarm animals in China. I thought that must be what Robin meant, and I was baffled, but I felt it was not outside the realm of possibility. My agile mind quickly developed a scenario in which a nearby cemetery (for which we’ve provided special event sheep at Easter services) might want watch-geese to keep miscreants, vandals, and the ghosts of the restless dead at bay.

I felt that the geese we keep at the ranch were up for the job, being as they could be guaranteed to be hostile to any other nearby creature up to and including the undead. They were certainly aggressive to me, and to Jet. Whenever I went into their pen, a particularly malicious gander would come up towards me, beak open, wings spread, hissing, while I menaced it with a blue plastic bucket and yelled, “Go ahead, come at me, I WILL CUT YOU!” There’s nothing like yelling I will cut you at farm animals to make you experience a distinct moment of “Look at my life, look at my choices,” but I had bigger problems to worry about. Goose problems.

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