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.