In which bodily harm comes to us all, and yet we persevere

This month has been rough on my lungs. And my legs. And my nostrils. And my wallet. And pretty much everyone else too.

Dad and I are both in the last stages of a weird cold/throat thing. It's been tough to shake, but we are trying to carry forward. At last, all I have to do is hock loogies and blow my nose occasionally, and it's all good. But there were some weeks where we got very little done. That's why this post is belated. There wasn't much to say until now. Also, my brother Trent got out of the Navy at the end of July and bought a large piece of property in southern Alabama, so Dad has been down with him several times to walk the property and get the lay of the land. I've told Trent he has to wait on building his house until mine is done because sharing Dad is too difficult. Thankfully, I am older, so he has to obey me.

Here are the current tiny house updates, with useful headings in bold so you know what to expect.

Insulating the Ceiling

Insulation is some tricky stuff. I had never worked with it before, and only had vague memories of Dad telling us not to touch the fluffy pink stuff that poked out of the corners of the attic in my parents' house. He told us it would get inside our skin and cut us and make us itch terribly, which, obviously, terrorized me. To this day, I still get a wave of apprehension whenever I think about eating cotton candy. Nowadays, insulation is brown instead of candy pink, but it's no less cuddly-looking. It looks like sheep fluff, and I want curl up in it and give it a hug. However, its real properties are much less friendly. It's heavy and bulky, and made of tiny tubes of glass, and they will indeed creep into your lungs and imbed themselves in your skin, and there's almost nothing you can do about it. You just have to suck it up (and try not to suck it up your nose).

After wrestling with the whole roll of insulation at once, straining to hold it over our heads while one of us stapled the sides of it into the ceiling braces, Dad got the idea to cut the roll into smaller, more manageable pieces, tie them up into garbage bags, and staple the bags up one by one. It was a genius idea, and while it did take a bit longer, it saved our backs and arms.

Watermelon-cutting knives can also be insulation-cutting knives.

It took several days, but we finally got it all up! Jane and I were itching and coughing for days, but I'll be warm in the winter!

Garbage bags stapled to my ceiling

Installing a Corrugated Steel Ceiling

At the Tiny House Roadshow, one of the houses that I liked the most had a shiny metal ceiling inside, and I just loved the way it looked. I had already been inadvertently going for a mixed-metal look in my own house, and corrugated steel seemed like it would fit right in with my aesthetic. So Dad and I took the truck to Lowe's (probably the 20th time we've been there since starting this project) and loaded up the back with 19 sheets of the stuff. Neither Dad nor I being extremely good at math, we had somehow both come up with the same number of sheets we would need in our separate calculations, so that's what we went with. And MAGICALLY, that's exactly the number of sheets we wound up needing!

The ceiling installation is the most difficult and time-consuming project we've attempted so far. It was really hard work, very taxing on the old arm and back muscles. Thankfully we had Jane and Mom to help us a couple of times (six hands are vastly better than four when it comes to holding 40 pounds of razor-sharp steel over your head). We only sliced ourselves a couple of times, and I left a little dried blood on one sheet as a testament to our hard work (honestly, it had dried before I noticed it and I'll scrub it off later). After days of back-breaking work, the ceiling is done! And it is so beautiful! It really brightens up the house with all the light bouncing off it from various sources. I am so glad I went with corrugated steel!

Electrical Work Continues

I wonder what percentage of my paycheck goes directly to Lowe's every month. It's got to be an unusally large chunk, because I find myself there several times a week, loading up on this and that. This week, it's been lights. Living room lights, kitchen lights, bathroom lights, laundry closet lights. At this point, I am well lit.

For the living room, I found some really cool track lighting that looks like little spotlights. Track lighting is something I've never worked with before, and I love how easy it is to change out the lights or add more if you want. I was originally going to put five of them across my living room, but they are so bright that four seems to already be pushing it. I got two pendant lamps for the kitchen that remind me of an industrial restaurant kitchen, in order to inspire me to cook better and more often. I am not so very hopeful that a light fixture will improve my somewhat abysmal kitchen skills, but it can't hurt. I got the cheapest light fixture for the laundry closet since nobody will see it. And the bathroom lights are sort of like clear wavy lampshades that will be suspended over the mirror, on a wall that has yet to be built.

I wanted Dad to take a picture of me wiring some light switches, but he wasn't sure it was entirely legal for me to be doing that, so you'll have to use your imagination. Picture me looking very tough and cool and serious while using a pocket knife to strip the insulation off some big wires, and you'll get it. I'm pretty badass like that.

Dad got jolted while wiring up the track lighting's power box. It was funny but also a bit scary. He actually said, "Yow." Now I know that even though the switch is off, power is still running through the black wires. I do enjoy hands-on learning most, but that's one lesson I'm content to learn vicariously.

Soap-Making Side Project

In an attempt to be more pioneery and homesteadly, my sister, Jane, and I went up to Huntsville a couple of weeks ago to learn how to make soap with DeAnna, one of Jane's good friends. DeAnna started making soap awhile back and offered to teach us and let us make a couple of loafs with her. Soap loaves. Loafs or loaves? Spellcheck says they are both right. "Loafs" seems more friendly, so I'll use that one.

DeAnna graciously had everything ready to go when we got there, and used a soap-making website which told her what quantities of each ingredient (various oils, fragrance, and lye) we needed for each loaf of soap. Everything had to be weighed and measured and mixed with the utmost care, especially the lye. It comes in a plastic bottle in little white flakes (a nice, clean version of what our grandmothers had to use, which I think was ashes from a wood-burning stove), and I had to stir constantly while pouring the flakes over a bowl of cold water, sitting in a second bowl of ice, to cool it down since it gets really hot while it dissolves. Apparently, if you do it the other way around, and pour water over the flakes, it could explode. Which would have been awesome, of course, but DeAnna would probably get mad and never invite us over to make soap again. I did accidentally splash soap mix into her and Jane's faces twice, so I'm already on shaky ground for a return visit. Jane was less careful with her face mask and probably inhaled many more lye fumes than I did. She seems pretty happy about it.

We made two loafs, one gardenia-scented with a lovely lavender hue, and one infused with coffee. We used real coffee grounds in addition to the espresso fragrance and the coffee butter that was part of the actual recipe. After mixing all the various ingredients together and achieving ideal thickness, we poured the soap mix into two frames that DeAnna's very handy husband had made, and that Jane had earlier taped off with wax paper. We did some color layering to make the soap pretty. And indeed, it worked!

Just after pouring

They look delicious.

 DeAnna let the loafs sit for a couple of weeks, and then she sliced them up and sent us the pictures. They'll continue to harden for a couple more weeks, and then they'll be ready to use!

Chicken Update

My chickens are all still alive. This is a happy success, since I've heard tell that chickens are notorious for getting themselves murdered by various wildlife. I've started letting them wander around outside their pen a bit so that they can scratch around in the yard and find some delicious bugs to eat. Clyde is always very alert when they are out, and maintains a close watch on the immediate area while his harem chows down. Little Dennis (Denise? We'll find out later, I guess) has gotten very flappy and hoppy and powers around like he has a bottle rocket strapped to his back. Any time anyone looks like they've found something interesting in the dirt, he darts under their heads to snatch it away. I can't fault him for being intrepid, but he's kind of a little jerk.

The hens are laying one egg every couple of days. I was worried that they were still feeling very stressed from the move or something was bothering them at night, but Mr. Gerry, who gave me the chickens, said that in this extreme heat, chickens naturally won't lay as much. But I am enjoying the few they give me! I did a taste test to compare my chickens' eggs with a store-bought eggs, and, undeniably, my eggs somehow have more taste. Or maybe I'm biased.

The State of My Legs

I've always liked to think of myself as a rough-and-tumble kind of girl, but if you were to look at my uncovered legs right now, you might think I'd gotten into some heavy meth usage, because buddy, they are terrifying. Mosquito bites, poison ivy, scrapes from sticks and concrete blocks, and bruises from falling down the folding ladder multiple times have made me tuck away all my shorts for next year, a bit early considering we're still experiencing 90 degree days. And what's more, in my quest to become more green, I cast away the notion of plastic disposable razors and bought a shiny, silver, old-fashioned safety razor. As pretty as it is, and as smug as I feel about being earth-friendly, the only thing I have used it for thus far is to carve multiple ruts and divots into my legs, on top of all the other shit going on down there. The razor also neatly slices off any scab that may be trying to aid in my leg healing from the other stuff. So the legs are a raw, bloody mess. I'm going full ape-woman for the rest of the year. Maybe I will try again later with that razor in the distant future after my leper look fades. It's a damn sexy razor, for truth. I will not give up on it.

In which too much time passes and there is now much to say

July has been cray*.

In addition to the sweltering heat, I have had a birthday, attended a music festival, worked 40 hour weeks, got sucked into the Ender's Game series, and had my parents leave town multiple times to head to the beach (upsetting, since I couldn't go too). In spite of these roadblocks and distractions, I have finally gathered enough time and material to write another blogpost.

In addition to working on the electrical wiring (not as easy to electrocute yourself as I had assumed), and installing my new ceiling fan and air conditioner, we cut a hole in the back wall for the new custom door and installed it. I can now see all the bears that want to eat me! The door isn't yet sealed in, but it provides easy access to the back deck. All we have to do is pry off the boards holding it closed any time we want to go out there, and then bang it back closed when we leave. I received a propane grill for my birthday, so I'm ready for my first party! Just have to build the deck rails, install some steps, figure out my fire pit, clear some underbrush, and figure out where to hang a couple of hammocks, and we're in business!

Last weekend, my friend Katie and I, along with Mom and Dad, attended the Tiny House Roadshow at the Birmingham Jefferson Civic Center. We didn't know what to expect beforehand, but we went with the intention of collecting ideas for my house. Katie is a former tiny house occupant herself, and an all-around level-headed and practical kind of gal, so she's worth her weight in gold (probably more, since she's also a tiny person in general.)

The Roadshow was small, as far as convention center shows go (gun, boat, women's, bridal, etc.), but there was still a lot to look at. There were probably 20 tiny houses on wheels that had been rolled into the room, and you could go into all of them and check out what had been done. Some were unfinished, some were finished and for sale as-is, and some were people's actual homes. We saw a hunting cabin with a tree stand built over the front porch and a tree you had to climb to get into the loft. There was what looked like a mobile dorm room, complete with beer taps and a TV on the outside, decorated in a gross Auburn vs. Alabama motif. There was a tiny gypsy caravan (I wanted to ask how many horses I would need to buy in order to pull it, but I didn't think I could keep a straight face). There was one so big, with a gigantic porch, that we wondered how it qualified as tiny. And there were many more normal-looking tiny homes with various smart and innovative storage solutions. By the time we left, we had ideas running out our ears.

In addition to the actual houses, there were a few booths set up selling various products, either closely or loosely (if at all) related to the tiny house movement and sustainability (can someone explain to me why Scentsy was there?). There were two solar panel companies, a company that sold small space heaters of various fuel types, and I was thrilled to see that Nature's Head had sent a representative to talk about their composting toilets! I had been hating the idea of having to install a septic tank, and here appeared my savior in all its polyethylene glory! There was a special price if you bought a composting toilet at the show, and after having done copious research, I knew I couldn't beat that price. So I splurged and bought one!

Now, I can hear some of you starting to heebie and jeebie about the prospect of being forced to use this primitive toilet system if you ever come visit. I assure you, as certainly as I can (having never used one myself as of yet), composting toilets are just as safe as normal toilets, and you won't get poop all over you. I promise. Unless you normally get poop all over yourself, in which case there's not much I can do. Anyways, don't be scared. It will be like an adventure. Like the first time I ever used a squatty potty, in a remote village out in the middle of the Andes mountains of Peru. There was no door. Or toilet paper. And alpaca were looking at me the whole time. This will be easier that that.

Last week, I took my dad to pick up his truck from a man who goes to my parents' church. He works on cars, tractors, lawn mowers, and four-wheelers for a living. He also raises chickens. So I casually mentioned that I was interested in getting some chickens for myself sometime in the future, and the next thing I know, he offers his Silkies to me for free. So, in the span of about three days, I went from talking about the possibility of chickens to being an actual chicken-lady. I am still a little shell-shocked at becoming a mother so quickly.

We spent most of yesterday building a makeshift, yet secure, chicken coop out of an old dog fence and dogloo (a doghouse that looks like an igloo). My brother, Trent, is in town for a few days, so he helped, along with Mom, my sister Jane, and of course, my dear old dad. We used yards and yards of chicken wire to cover the top (to keep out birds of prey) and go around the edges along the ground (to fend off large earth-bound predators), some rebar to keep them from digging under, and a couple of sheets of bathroom linoleum for shade. Guess how much of that was stuff my dad just had lying around? And then we went to get the chickens. Here they are! Aren't they cheerful?

They're called Silkies on account of their soft, silky feathers that you might easily mistake for fur. There are three hens, a rooster, and a chick of as-yet-undetermined sex. Have I named them? Of course I have. The hens are Thelma, Louise, and Bonnie, and the rooster is Clyde. The baby is Dennis. Its little feet are so covered in long feathers that it looks like it's wearing fluffy white clown shoes. The hens lay smallish white eggs, or they're supposed to if they ever recover from being traumatized by the neighbors' dog Sunny D. She's completely obsessed with them and runs frantically around the cage like a maniac with crazed eyes. I'm gonna wind up spending an entire strip of fire crackers on that damn dog. She tried to dig under the cage last night, but Dad filled in the holes with cement and laid another layer of dirt, bricks, and concrete blocks around the edges of the coop. I hope it keeps Sunny and all other manner of critters out. If not, I might have to learn to shoot a gun**.

Tonight, I borrowed my grandfather's large truck and went to Tractor Supply in order to buy a large, galvanized metal horse trough with high sides and a nice, shiny, silver exterior. And while I may someday acquire a horse or three (Horses in the woods! What an idea!) this trough is for me to use as my bathtub. I've seen it done on the show Tiny House Nation, and horse trough tubs are all over Pinterest, so, unfortunately, I'm not being original here. But ever since my legs grew to adultish sizes, it has been a pain to take a bath in a normal-sized bathtub. Either my top half winds up exposed and cold, or my bottom half does, and I have to keep alternating positions to maintain uniform body warmness. It is not relaxing. BUT NOW! Now, I will be able to stay warm from toenail to earlobe. However, since it will take a LOT of water to fill that thing up, baths will be a very occasional treat. But even knowing I could take one if I wanted to feels like a luxury. Here's a sneak peek:

I really hope that "CountyLine" sticker comes off easily.
Stickers are my nemesis.

* I hate when people abbreviate words for no reason. Cray is short for crazy. Not sure why I went with the annoying version of the word. But if I go back and change it now, I will have to reorganize all the asterisks in my footnotes. And that's asking a bit much***.

**I hate guns. Completely detest them. Which is weird since I was born into a family- nay- a CULTURE of gun-lovers. Please don't try to argue with me about this, or convince me to like them. You will fail, and you will stress me out. However, in order to compromise, I have agreed to get a tranquilizer gun, and to also practice my archery, sling shot, and knife-throwing skills. I'm pretty sure pumping someone full of drugs and then flinging arrows, stones, and knives into them will keep them from hurting me or my chickens. 

***Ok, so there are only three footnotes****, and two of them are pointless. Oh well.

****Now there are four.

In which a small fortune is spent and a deck is built

Mom has been gone gallivanting in Poland for the past week, and this gives Dad lots of time to focus on me and my project. I have made him promise not to work on the house in my absence though, because although I am still working full time, I want to be there for everything. I want to become a master builder, capable of whipping up a chicken coop or an underground bunker at a moment's notice. But first I must tackle the small stuff. Like how best to get a small, straight piece of metal to hold two boards together. It's not as common-sense as you'd think.

After buying all of Lowe's's (how the heck is that possessive done?) 2x6x8 inch planks, and also a bunch of 2x4x8s, and some 4x4x8s, and even a couple of 4x6x8s (if you want to find diversity in the South, just venture into your local hardware store's wood department), we started building the back deck. Now, to be completely honest, building a back deck would not be one of the first things I would have focused on in this tiny house adventure. But seeing as how my contractor is my dad, and he is working for free, and the amount of things I currently know about construction could fill a thimble, I didn't argue and just went with it. And now I have a lovely back deck!

Despite my pirate stance, this is not a poop deck.

As elementary as it looks, I had no idea how involved it was to build a simple platform. You have to measure things and cut things and level things and prop things up, and then whack things with hammers and put nails in things, and then measure other things, at which point you must again cut things and level things, and then whack and nail THOSE things, and on it goes until you have a deck. It took awhile. And we still plan to install rails and rail-seats around the edge so clumsy people won't stumble off it and break themselves (I am referring to myself here), therefore it's not totally complete yet. But I am proud of what we've accomplished and wanted to post about our success so far.

Totally Sawesome!

One of the coolest tools I've seen/used yet is an unassuming little thing, the palm driver. It is a miniature air hammer, meaning it uses compressed air to drive nails with little to no effort on your part. I must admit, the first time I used it, I immediately burst into giggles at how easy and quick it was. It's so easy, it feels like cheating. Here is a short, embarrassing demonstration of how it works. In real life, it sounds much less like farting, I promise:

I tried to take a video of myself while using the palm driver, but I messed up both the nail and the video. I guess selfie-videoing while using power tools isn't a fantastic idea. Luckily my Dad is a cell phone video aficionado. 

By the way, here's Dad. He doesn't smile in photos, unless you sneak one while he's laughing. I'll try to get a smiling one next time, but no promises. He's had that mustache my entire life. One time, my sister and I photoshopped it off of him just to see what his upper lip looked like, and the resulting photo made us scream and ctl-alt-del as quickly as we could. But I still remember. It haunts me.

In other news, I dropped some major fat stacks this week on supplies for my house (Metaphorically, of course. Who pays for things with cash anymore?). Harbor Freight was having a big Independence Day sale, and we went a big looney with the coupons they sent in the mail. I bought a huge generator, two sets of small solar panels (coming in at a combined 90 watts- not a lot, but it's a start), and other various sundries I probably don't need. Dad loaded up as well with a welding helmet, some magnetic trailer taillights, and other stuff I doubt he really needed. But it was ON SALE! And that is a siren call that few can withstand. I also spent way too much on a bunch of vintage brass outlet and switch covers from eBay, and bought an 10,000 BTU air conditioner from Lowe's. We've been to Lowe's so often these past two weeks that when one of the younger workers sees us, he makes a beeline for our truck and helps us load everything up. By George, I think I may have a suitor.

Fail of the Week: I got permission from my wonderful employer, Trader Joe's, to take home as many wooden pallets as I need for my cabin effort. However, I have discovered that wooden pallets will not fit through the opening of the trunk of my car. I'm currently wondering how management (and mall security) will take it if I break out the Sawzall on the loading dock and take them apart before shoving them into my trunk. Thoughts?

In which treasures are found and rears are discussed

My house has a lovely front door.

Question: What would I do if I was in the cabin, and a bear busted in through the door?

Current Answer: Try to chop it with a kitchen knife and then die, probably.

This is not satisfactory. I need a back door. The tricky bit is that my available floor-to-ceiling-of-loft back wall space is quite short (just under six feet) so a standard door will not fit. Standard is 80 inches, and I need a 70-inch door. Quelle probleme!

After having consulted with Lowe's, I was quoted somewhere between 350 and 500 dollars for a custom made door with windows. Apparently, when it comes to custom-ordering doors, "pardon my language, but they bend us over." Hmmm. I decided that custom ordering a back door from Lowe's for my cabin was cost-prohibitive, and we should investigate other avenues. Thankfully, Mom remembered a solid-core wooden door (meaning it wasn't hollow, though the interior of the door was pressboard (my nemesis)) hiding out in the basement. It had been left over from the building of their house 20-something years ago, so we dug it out. It was firm and smooth, like I image Channing Tatum's posterior to be. That's a door I can get behind.

I wanted a window in the new door so I could see, in running from the first bear, if there were any more bears coming in from the back. You know, to determine if I needed to grab more knives. And guess what. Dad has windows too.

My parents' house is a veritable stockpile of various household implements. My dad saves anything and everything that might possibly be useful someday. (Yes, there is a word for this tendency, but we won't use it here. Let's just call it... resourceful and sentimental?) Therefore, when I need something, my dad can usually come up a solution from some dark corner of the basement or back yard. Doors? Got 'em. Windows? There's a pile under a tarp out by the old playhouse. There's a stainless steel sink bowl under the back porch, and several antique cast iron fireplace fronts in the basement that he took out of a soon-to-be-demolished house when he was 12. He even rustled up an old chemical toilet that I can use in the bathroom while I save up for a nice composting toilet. I am a fan of this only because I am a fan of not spending money. You may be asking yourself, 'why doesn't she just install a septic system and put in a normal flushing toilet so I won't be freaked out and confused when I go to visit her?' The answer is this: I think it will be hilarious to have to show people how to use the toilet. Maybe I'll make a little instructive video to send you before you come over for the first time. So there's something to look forward to. And also, septic systems mean digging big holes, and I am too old and tired for that.

We cut the bottom off the door to make it 70 inches tall. Then we picked out a window from the pile in the yard and cut a hole in the middle of the door to fit it. Dad sanded the door and I stained it. It looks unusual, but excellent. And the large window will give me a good view of the (yet unbuilt) back deck. I can't wait to chop a huge hole in the back wall (chopping is more fun than digging) and install it. Them bears is gonna get a face full of knives if they ever try to sneak up on me.

Afternote:
I remember attending a karaoke session at the clubhouse across the lake once upon a time wherein creepy adult neighbors sang inappropriate songs and made everyone (i.e. me) uncomfortable. One man sang "Back Door Man" and I was super freaked-out because it talks about little girls, and also I thought it was about butt sex. I was a pre-teen at the time. How did I know about butt sex? Anyways, turns out, the song's about having an affair with a married woman. Which is also gross. In any case, the words "back door" have never meant the same to me since. I apologize.

In which my castle arrives and we are all surprised

I want to begin by saying that I did not take the easy way out. Yes, I bought a pre-built cabin shell. And yes, it was delivered straight to my site with virtually no work on my part. HOWEVER, a great deal of stress concerning a confusion about the size of the upstairs windows

Me: I want the 3x3s in the lofts.

Them: Ok. That's 30 bucks extra.

Me: Ok.

Them, the next week: They called and said those won't fit.

Me: Oh. That's ok. 2x3s are fine.

Them: I had to cancel the order and you have to come back and redo all the paperwork.

Me: What? That's ridiculous. I don't live nearby. Let me call the main office.

Main Office: You don't have to go back and the order wasn't cancelled. We can fix it.

Me: Ok, thanks. This is really confusing.

Them: You still need to come in and re-sign.

Me: Nope.

House is delivered, with loft windows somewhere between the 2x3s and 3x3s she showed us. Are they 2x4s? Whatever.

and a deluge of rain delaying the delivery for an entire week took so much out of me that I feel like I really worked for it. And, after all, it is just a shell at this point. No wiring, plumbing, insulation. The real work will come. But who cares? It's so pretty!

The metal roof is colored copper, and I had them leave the wood siding the natural color. The inside currently has three lofts, but we will remove the small middle one (put there for stability while pulling this thing down the road) and extend the back loft. I am also going to be building two interior walls to create a bathroom space, and a small laundry closet.

The footprint of the entire house, including front porch but not the lofts, is 392 square feet (14 feet wide by 28 feet long). 

Here's the inside view from the sleeping loft, and me being happy in it, despite having scraped my elbows climbing up there. You can see the small middle loft that will be moved to join with the bigger loft in the far background:

Here's my porch and feet. This is a new thing that my little brother started in our family. Anytime we are somewhere new and interesting, we take a pic of our feet propped up and text it to each other:

The delivery itself was the surprising part. They towed the house to us on a single-axle semi. We were wondering how the hell that thing was going to drive up my crazy-steep new gravel driveway. Surprise, surprise. They slowly tipped the trailer up and slid the house off onto a tiny little 13 horsepower Mule and two big tires propping up the other side, which then proceeded to tow the whole cabin up my driveway. The incline was a little much, so Dad volunteered to push from behind in the tractor. And up it went! The delivery team consisted of a man, his early-20s daughter, and teen nephew. The three of them had it secured in place in about an hour. They were incredibly good at what they did.

So my house is here. I still can't get my car up the driveway (gravel isn't packed tightly enough yet), but it's only a matter of time. Gardens! Rotating composters! Chickens and goats and bees! A penny floor! I am so full of ideas. My Pinterest boards overfloweth. I shall keep ye updated.

Afternote:

I have slept in the cabin several times since its delivery. My first night in it, Mom and Dad brought me a chair and a vase of flowers, and left me a note that said "Welcome Home".

In which the ground, and also the skin on my hands, is broken

Every time I start a new phase in my life, I am compelled to start a new blog.

This one is about my foray into house building, and also gardening, and also self-sufficiency, and also simplifying my life, and also going green. There's a lot. It's hard to know where to start.

For the past five years, I lived in New York City, partly in Queens, but mostly in Manhattan. It was an adventure every day. An expensive, noisy, beautiful, stressful adventure. One evening when the city was really getting to me, I realized that over the course of five years, I had spent over $50,000 in rent. Now, I don't want anyone to get the idea that I regret moving to NYC. I'm sure it was exactly what I needed at that moment in my life. But during those five years of hustle and struggle (which, I know it's cliche, but is REAL) I started building a new idea in my brain. An idea of a small place entirely my own where I was the landlord and the super and the tenant all in one. Where I could have a doggie and a lot of outdoor space to grow my plants. And then I stumbled upon the tiny house movement.

I was instantly obsessed, and watched every single show and clicked every single pin on Pinterest that was even remotely about tiny houses. I was amazed to see what people could do with so little space. It was all so clever! And cute! But not in an annoying way. More like, a cool-kid-aloof-no-big-deal-shrug way. Like, "Yeah, my bed also doubles as a dining table, and occasionally a bathtub when I'm feeling whimsical, so what?" I wanted one!

Secret confession: I love to surprise people, especially by doing something they don't expect me to be able to do. It's the main reason I brought a snake home from the UAB reptile show when I was 12, played the drums in beginning band, and why I only buy cars with manual transmissions. You're damn right I'm gonna wire and plumb this house myself.

So I said adios to NYC, moved back to Alabama, picked a spot of virgin forest on my parents' 22 acres, and said, "Let's do it!" Unfortunately, I do not own a tractor, so I had to sit on the Mule and watch as Dad and his friend Terry knocked down trees with their tractors where my house was to go. I wished so badly that I could have participated in this part, but I had to swallow my pride and just let it happen. And honestly, I don't know if I've ever seen Dad have so much fun.

Another confession, though this one concerns the whole Humber family: If Dad asks you to help him, be aware that "helping" him consists of standing nearby while he does all the work himself. You may occasionally hand him something, but I think he just likes the moral support of having someone nearby. However, in regards to my house, Dad will be helping me. I am determined to do at least half of the work myself so I can understand how a house gets built and how it works from the inside out. Dad is my contractor and I am the apprentice. I am going to build this house! Even if I continue to leave bits and pieces of my own flesh and blood everywhere (concrete blocks will destroy you if you let them), and contract malaria from one of the thousands of mosquitos fighting each other for real estate on my legs, and all my limbs are covered in oozing pustules from the poison oak blanketing the property, I WILL MAKE A HOUSE! AND I WILL ENJOY IT! Whether I like it or not.