In which I wax nostalgic for butter

Growing up in the mountains of southwest Virginia, I rarely ate Chinese cuisine. In fact, I never did, unless you count Chicken Chow Mein as served up in the John I. Burton cafeteria. A nice scoop of chicken and some vague veggie soaked in a creamy soup topped with crispy chow mein noodles. This was as authentic as it got. (Of course, I also believed that Velveeta was the realest cheese there was. Velveeta beat Kraft Sliced American by a country mile.)

They don't make cafeteria food like they used to, is what I'm thinking tonight. Cafeteria food used to equal comfort. Spaghetti. Hamburger, Minute Steak and Gravy. Hot Roll with Butter. Yes, butter. A hunk of real, straight-from-the-cow butter.

Now the school cafeteria menu looks like something from a vegan support group - garbanzo beans, carrot sticks, celery sticks (w/ Ranch Cup), kidney bean salad, pea pods. Seriously. It makes me long for a can of Vienna Sausages and a Del Monte Pudding Cup!

How do today's kids stand it? Benjy wants to pack a lunch most every single day. He's like me - picky. I drink a V-8 for my veggie supply. He eats an apple for his fruit obligation. We get by on the bare minimum of health standards. (No, I'm not proud.) 

Still, while I know that these new foods are meant to make our kids healthier, I'm nostalgic for the menus that made me look forward to the lunch line.

That sauce with the Minute Steak and Gravy?
To die for!!!

And the butter?
I would slide it to the corner of its little sea-green compartment in my lunch tray and then smear my Not Whole Grain Roll into the greasy cube before each and every bite.
   Pure.
         Buttery.
                Bliss.

The most lasting and nostalgic of all meals was the annual Spaghetti with Meat Sauce fundraising dinner at the high school.  This dish attracted spaghetti lovers by the droves to the annual Raider Football Supper. (Or was it Raider Football that prompted people to eat the spaghetti???)

Every fall, a gathering of fans would form down by the basement entrance to the cafeteria. Band music blared as the woodwinds and what-not warmed up and the drums banged out their beats from down the hall. There was a line - a real actual line of people - to the cafeteria where the meal was served.

We all gathered on that night - musicians, athletes, spaghetti lovers. Gorging ourselves full and then waddling over to the stadium. Football players, cheerleaders, the band, and the fans, united by noodles and Hot Buttered Rolls.

Winter Surprise

There is nothing so sweet as the sound of the words snow day. From the time I was a little girl lying in the dark of my room waiting for the WNVA announcer to cancel Norton City Schools, those words have been the super star of winter. They're enough to make winter my favorite season, snow my favorite precipitation. 

This morning I awoke at 4:30 and peeked outside. Snow. Glistening white and still pouring down. The streets were covered, no signs of any tire marks, much less snow plows. I knew, but didn't actually know, that this would be a snow day.

And of course, I could not fall back to sleep. So I just lay there. 

     Waiting. 

           Waiting. 

                 Waiting.

It wasn't unlike being a kid and waiting for the local DJ to make his way through the alphabet to the Ns, in between relaying the sports scores and playing ads for Piggly Wiggly and The Swap Shop.

So I just lay there awake, knowing something was going to happen. An hour later I got the first text from the Hartford news station. Then my phone dinged again, a text from Trinity's Parent Alert system. Shortly afterward, the Parent Alert automated call. All confirmed we were closed today. 

But I still couldn't sleep. 

My husband texted from sunny Florida, where his work department is meeting this week. "Back to sleep?" 

I texted back, all thumbs and squinty-eyed in the brightness of my phone, "Not till all the texts and calls are done. Grrrrr."

I still had to wait for the call from the staff phone tree. I grew restless just lying there, fearful I wouldn't be able to fall back to sleep. Finally, I gave up, agitated that my morning off was being wasted with wakefulness. I jumped the tree and called my person, then rolled over to wait for the person ahead of me to call. They never did.

I did fall back into a blissful sleep. No dreams. I didn't wake till Camden tiptoed into my room. "Mom? Are we closed today?"

"Yup, we sure are," I told him. 

"Yesssssssssssss!" 

I wonder if that's what I used to say before rolling back over, my 13-year-old self satisfied with the gift of a winter surprise.

My First Crush

I've been catching up on my favorite author's blog tonight. Pat Conroy doesn't post often, but I don't catch up often. So it works. 

I read tonight about his lost love from 8th grade, a crush that reminded me of my own love life back in 1982. Me, a pale four-eyed sub-sub freshman - yes, we called ourselves that because having a name was almost like being a senior! I was a frumpy shyish girl, clothed almost entirely from the Sears & Roebuck catalog and Park's Belk and Dave's, one who didn't at all worry about my big hair and its resemblance to the Shoney's Big Boy. I faithfully toted to school my green-cased clarinet along with my armload of books and notebooks. No backpack for me, or for any of my friends now that I think about it. When exactly were backpacks invented? I also carried, much to my embarrassment, a lunch box that was actually a brown vinyl drawstring pouch with hangy-down ears and a dog face drawing and the words "doggie bag" along the bottom. Cool is what I was not. 

But I was madly in love with Michael McElroy. It started in 7th grade when Patricia Moore dared to name her crush, and then she rated him a perfect 10. I, feeling pressured to cough up one for myself, hastily picked Michael. I think I called him a 9.5. He was a year ahead of me, but his locker was right across the hall from mine. I was drawn to his smile, I think. I'm not positive, seeing as how I didn't even know him at the time. But I chose him. And I made it my business to eyeball this mystery boy who could be found between classes trading books and jokes with friends in the dim light of the 7th and 8th grade wing. I spent the next several years (yes, I'm a committed sort of girl) loving the idea of loving this boy. 

And to think we actually became very good friends, even after a brief stint of "going together".  It was very brief as I recall, but I'll always remember riding bikes with Michael and Maureen down around the post office and Maureen calling out to me, "Michael wants to know if you'll go with him." I replied seductively, "Huh???" And she said, "Believe it, it's true." And for a minute or a day, we did "go together." Michael and I. 

It was purely innocent. We never touched. We hardly talked. But I tell you, we did "go together." Like peanut butter and jelly and chips and dip and rama lama lama ke dinga de dinga a dong, remembered forever like shoo bop shoo wadda wadda yipitty boom de boom. 

I was Michael Mac's girlfriend for a moment in time. And that was just enough. Then in later years, we became real, true friends, hanging out after lifeguard duty in the summers and during the weekends and breaks of college. Tied together by laughter, the Pet Shop Boys, Coca Cola shirts, and spring socials. He and Candace. I with Jon, for a few times. Friends, the all of us.

Michael was decidedly my very first crush. And to this day, I smile when I think of him. 

As providence would have it, a decade later, Michael became best of friends with my sister Michelle. He found his way to Shell's world in Florida and took up with her and her husband, Brian. Together they created a boatload of laughs and memories. Shell possessed both a giggle and wistfulness when she talked of their crazy adventures. She thrived in helping Michael out, the newcomer to Florida. She loved her life down there with husband and friends. She was so good at it all.

When she died, we cried together. I will never forget Michael and me sobbing at her funeral, bound together by that unspeakable grief. We took a break from the formalness of it all and walked out to the parking lot at Hagy-Fawbush Funeral Home, not "going together", but going together. We could breathe out here, outside of the carnation-scented parlor where she lay. We could freely laugh at Shell's funny moments, remember her gifts, eulogize her way with people. Just be. 

In this parking lot I realized just how precious my first crush was. Michael was not just my first love, he was my friend for life. Bound by Michelle's love for this world and him and me. I may have met him in 7th grade, but I truly knew him at my sister's funeral. We loved Shell for everything she was. We loved her ability to love. 

Shell freely loved people. She loved their goodness in spite of their flaws. She loved with all of herself, without the selfishness I have or the judgment of the world. Shell loved. 

That night, under the blanket of stars and cloud of parking lot smokers, Michael and I wanted to be more like her. To this day, I am moved to love like Michelle did. I remember how her friends from far and wide gathered to remember her awesome, big love. And I want to live up to that. I want my 7th grade self to love like her big-hearted Michelle-ness did. 

Looking Forward to a New Order of Things

It was difficult. 

Last night. 

Hard to feel good finding joy when I knew there were families an hour away who found only sorrow.

I watched my boys sing and act in the school's Christmas musical, my heart swelling with love and, yes, a touch of pride.

I knew I had them for that moment. 
But that's all I knew.

 I have to embrace it all.

I can't take a single moment for granted.

So we cried. 
A whole lot of us there.
And we prayed. 
Because that's the only solution in this whole tragedy. 
God is the only hope that shines through this war with evil.

 John Stott wrote: “I could never myself believe in God if it were not for the Cross. In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it?” 

And Tim Keller responded: "Do you see what this means? Yes, we don’t know the reason God allows evil and suffering to continue, but we know what the reason isn’t, what it can’t be. It can’t be that he doesn’t love us! It can’t be that he doesn’t care. God so loved us and hates suffering that he was willing to come down and get involved in it. And therefore the Cross is an incredibly empowering hint. Ok, it’s only a hint, but if you grasp it, it can transform you. It can give you strength."

Keller's entire post on suffering can be found here. 

There is comfort there, 

in God's word. 

In His promises.

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18, NIV) 

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” Revelation 21:4 (NIV)

Looking forward to the new order of things.

In memory of...

Not only am I short, but also I am not a black belt like my husband. 

Still, this post is not about me. I was downloading pictures of our Christmas tree hunt (which was more like a perusal) when I found this on his iPhone. I had to download it. It reminded me of that all-important night when he tested for his black belt and earned it. What a night.

Our taekwondo school in Greensburg, Pa., had some serious tests. There was indeed the chance that you would NOT earn your belt after the night. Mess up your form in front of the judges and not ask for a redo. Miss your board break. Puke. (OK, the puke part was a figment of my own testing nightmares.) Nevertheless, there was no guarantee you'd actually PASS the test. Failure was an option. 

But for Curt on this night, he nailed every move. He sparred right. He did his form right. He broke his boardSSSSSS. And he looked like a black belt in every way. 

This was a proud night. He felt overwhelmed when it was over, tears leaking out of his eyes. I felt immensely proud of his work - three years of dedication to this one night. And though this school doesn't exist here in our neck of the woods, he's still a black belt. Nobody can take that away from him. 

Picture this, if you will...

I'd give my eye teeth to have pictures to go with this post. I'm sure I have some stored up somewhere, but that was before the digital age. And though I'm willing to search my Shutterfly account for old photos, I'm absolutely not gonna go digging through a stack of boxes for a picture I can't even be sure exists anymore.

In my mind, however, I can see everything clearly. There's the dining room table set for twelve (extended with a card table, but covered with one giant Christmasy table cloth and matching cloth napkins). Mulled wine simmers in the crock pot; the Blue Willow teacups are waiting to be filled. Curt is cooking because it was just safer that way. 

This was a tradition back at 618 Walnut where we lived till Benjy was born, not long enough. Every December we hosted our own Old Southwest Christmas Parlor Tour dinner. We invited friends and told them to dress warmly and be ready for walking. And then we'd feed them, fill their flasks, and be off. The tour is, to this day, an annual fundraiser for the historic district neighborhood we called home. Roughly 10 homes were on the tour every year, and we'd traipse through each of them ogling their decorations and wood trim and original windows and impossible kitchens. Every house smelled of Christmas - all cinnamony and apply and sprucey. Candles floated in bathtubs. Fresh greens stretched from room to room. And polite oversee-ers stood in every room keeping watch.

And then we'd turn into the last room and tumble out the door, whisk our flasks of mulled wine out of our pockets, and sneak a sip before heading to the next house. The entire tour took about 3 hours. And by the time we got home, we were convinced we had the shabbiest house in the city. Our fake greenery and aged decorations surely wouldn't attract a rat, much less a $10 ticket. 

What I know now, almost 10 years later, is that my aged decorations look just as good in the dim light as the ones I saw on the Parlor Tour. And I can float candles in water as well as anyone. But I don't think it's the decorations that make the house, in fact, as much as the love that fills it. Whether the houses we paid to see were filled with love of family or love of the season or love of kitchens, each and every one had somebody filled with a love of something fixin' them up for the rest of us. 

This teeny-tiny house we live in now has tons of that love. So much love we're a muffin-top kind of home. We love each other fiercely. We love the anticipation of the season. We love the Christmas lights  shining in every room. We love the good smell of Glade candles that masks Ein's litter box. The bottom line is, we love. 

One day, with God's blessing, we will make it home, and we'll resume our Christmas Parlor Tour dinner parties. But until that day, we'll happily count our blessings that we've found the real beauty of a parlor tour in our own living room of our rented 1950s Cape that's just right for us. If you want a tour, we promise not to charge you.

On using the word SANS

I had big plans for this year's Christmas card.

Something along the lines of Photoshop and Santa hats and family frolicking on the beach.

Alas, my version of Photoshop is hopelessly outdated.

There were no Santa hats on the Picmonkey, the free online photo editor I use now that I'm hopelessly out-dated.

My whole family frolicked on the beach, indeed, but nobody took a picture of us.

(Somebody else's family frolicked - danced up a storm! And I got loads of pictures of them. 

But it didn't suit for the Christmas card. 

I was blown away by this fun little dance team, but I doubt you would be.

So anyway, I placed my order for the cards at Shutterfly, and then I went back to play on PicMonkey. And, do you wanna know what I discovered? Lo and behold, I can draw my own Santa hats!!!

I can make the card I have been dreaming of since August!

So, if I'd only been an hour ahead of myself (perhaps if I'd lived somewhere in the Atlantic ocean), I'd have discovered this before I saved 40% and scored free shipping on cards sans Santa hats. As it stands, I'm gonna have to draw dingdang hats on each and every card. Or you're just gonna get the boring one shown at the top of this blog. DRAT!

-- One of my last shots of Roanoke as we left home at 5:58 a.m. Sunday morn. I was awake for only three more minutes.

This was the parting shot I was after. Note the price of gas. It's a bit more than the all-time low of $2.97 spotted on this trip. It's still far less than what we Connecticutonians pay on any ding dang day of the week (near $4.00).

I was sound asleep 45 seconds after snapping this. 

(What's with lighted holiday pigs???)

The good news is that I took Monday off. I figured, hey - I am due a break after that drive from Ct. to Va. (Even if Curt drove it and I napped and read and napped the whole drive home.)  

      Thank you, Johns Sanford and Irving, for something to read. 

And so I took the day off to play. Actually, I went to Costco with Curt and to Chili's for enchilada soup and Home Depot for clear storage boxes and Michael's for lighted outdoor trees, and back home to set up Christmas decorations, so I'm not positive that is considered "play", but nonetheless, I didn't work that day for any sort of compensation short of my own happiness. And I'm happy now. I sweep in the door and flick on my lights and - voila, I'm in Christmas land!

Back in Costco:

I wonder if I should invest in this for Christmas dinner. It's complete! It serves 8-10! It's fully cooked! (Then I remember the Pioneer Woman brisket....)

Curt wondered if I would take a picture of his pride and joy - the first decoration to go up on our day off. (It's a major award!!!)  It's not that I wasn't game to tread outdoors in the freezing 30s. It's more like I needed a reason to. Yesterday, clad in my pajamas, there was no reason. Today, on the way home from school, I found reason.  This is real love, friends. I light this leg every night of the Christmas season for my one. true. love. And plus also I sort of think it's cool.

Winning!

Winning in pictures

trophies don't even count.

Benjy's sparring event

He took 3rd place!

So thankful it's over!

Camden's 2nd place for forms - after two tie-breakers!!!

And now for sparring...

It wasn't pretty by just a tad, but the dude held his own. 

So proud of my guys!

It's gonna get a bit WENDI around here!

I'm all about having cable TV right now.   24-hour TWC, a constant stream of images and sound and weather to fuel my heightening excitement over this impending hurricane. Why, Jim Cantore himself comes to my living room every time I summon channel 19. (Back when we lived in the Big House, we didn't splurge for cable. When we moved to the Teeny Tiny House, they made us such a deal that it's cheaper to GET cable here than it was to NOT have it there. Note to self: move often to keep up with the deals.)

As I was saying, this hurricane is zooming up the coast. I had written it off as a non-event just a few hours ago. Then I tuned in. Nothing like Live Reports and Breaking News to pique my interest. Not to mention I have an aunt with the very same name. Now I'm a little concerned. Not a lot. But enough.

Here's a little perspective for you.

It's a whopper of a storm. We're expecting high winds here and storm surge near the coast. We're too far north for that, but the winds will likely bring down power poles which means I'll be playing Little House on the Prairie again. 

And truth be told, I'm OK with that. Little House is apt for us about now. We're cozy here. Squeezed together in a comfortable way, with enough space to be in time-out if we need it. 

God's given us just what we need for this season of our lives. We could consider ourselves between seasons, I suppose, as we wait for our chance to go home. But we don't. This is the season of growing closer to each other, closer to Him. It's a time to be deliberate with our time, our money, our choices. It's a season with purpose, and we don't want to waste it.

With or without power, we'll make it. But you can bet we'll be plugging in the power converter to the truck so we can keep up with the weather during the black-out. Good thing we sat in line to fill up some gas cans today. 

A Slice of Thursday

From
DRAs
lesson plans
writing conferences
November projects
homework
broken jump drives
...

to the best part
of Thursday,
lunch with Benjy.

Why I'm not watching the presidential debate:

Why in the world did I major in political science when I hate politics so much that I refuse - steadfastly refuse - to watch the presidential debates?

I won't try to make myself sound political or science-y or even remotely smart (cause I was just a good student, you see; I knew how to work wonders with an essay test.)  Political science was definitely not my calling, even though I'm the one who picked it.

So, why did I do that? Easy: Compared with English, I had the most credits in it. I figured at the time that I was destined to major in poli-sci because (a) my daddy was a town manager and (b) I must have liked it since I'd taken so many classes. 

And then I finished college and spent a few years pretending to be a reporter at the Roanoke Times, which was fun and satisfying and made me feel like the Big Time, even though I was most definitely not. The most invigorating times to be in that newsroom were during breaking news - the budding war in Iraq, Waco, the 1992 presidential election. CNN was coming out and the world opened up to 24-7 news. I loved it. I lived and breathed NEWS, even as I worked in the fluffy features department slaving over the weekly calendar and Fridaysomething and the occasional newsFun article as the phones rang and rang and I had to answer those, too. 

I loved it. 

All that news, the talking heads, the quick flashes of action and sound bites and sometimes dramatic music.  News became my idol.

I just loved it.

(Then I felt called to teach; and that's a whole other story.)

So, what's happened that I can't even watch a debate now?  It could be blood pressure related, but I've always had excellent blood pressure (not to brag or anything). Of course they've never slapped on the cuff during a fit of madness. And that's what I feel during these debates - madness. Where's the truth? Who's to tell you where the truth is? And are they worthy of reporting the truth? News is certainly not my idol anymore. 

Right-wingers will swear their side is the only way. Left-wingers will swear the same. I cannot stand the very idea that either is that black and white, one way or the other. That much solidarity errs on the side of ignorance, it seems to me. Nobody is perfect. Nobody on earth, that is. You simply cannot believe 100% of either side. Seriously. Can you? 

I think it's the racket that comes out of these debates - the spin room speakers, the negativity, the 100%-positivity, the lack of fact-checking, the inane Facebook status updates and comments that follow, and all that money that follows along like a scrappy little pup on a leash. People line up on their own sides and scream across the field at the other. It's all just so ugly.

I'm not regretful that I was a poli-sci major. I'm certainly not ashamed of my daddy's stint as the longest-serving manager of a single town in Virginia (at least he held that record a few years ago). I'm just being honest here. I'm sick and tired of the distrust I feel in the whole entire political process. 

And so, in the end, you'll be relieved to know that I do calm down. I do carry on knowing the secret to happy, joyful living - no matter what is going on here on earth ~ 

  

Character Traits

A FB friend recently asked how we(her Facebook friends) felt about the presidential candidates and their personalities/character. I commented that character is very important to me. It's how you act when nobody is looking. It is who you are fundamentally. Under your skin. Deep down in your soul. That stuff matters to me.

* I am NOT going to write about either candidate. My political views are my own. And nothing I say will sway anybody whose mind is already made up.  I rest in knowing that Jesus is my King and He reigns over whomever we elect.

My friend's post reminded me of a recent minilesson I taught to my second graders. These kids believe in character, too. And they can spot one's true character in a nanosecond. They can read a book, identify the main character, and analyze him/her. They can read both the out-loud right-there traits as well as the more subtle nuances that define the character. They know how to read between the lines and how to judge - yes, judge - what you say side-by-side with what what you do. 

They know. They KNOW. 

7-year-olds can figure out your character.

They can analyze your words. 

They can analyze your actions.

They can analyze your character.

If ever there was a calling to act like the person you want to be, then this is it. Our children are watching. 

Lord, please help me to be the person you've called me to be. Help me to think like a child of God, to talk like a child of God, to act like a child of God. Help me to be the child you created. 

Soft Spots

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18, "Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." (NIV)

I suppose I could think of our little situation here in Casa de Tiny as a holding pattern, a circumstance to get through if you will. Something to endure till a bigger house, a better tax rate, a finer view comes our way. But I don't. 

That's not to say that a couple of years ago, if I'd heard the Lord ask me to sell my beautiful house and hole up in a rental half the size for an indefinite amount of time, I'da not up and acted like I didn't hear a thing. "What's that? Oh, must've been the wind. Or Camden." 

But last spring when Curt and I both heard His calling, we knew. At first it seemed like God was saying, (in a voice remarkably like Dave Ramsey) "DOWNSIZE". And so we were fully prepared to buy a smaller (not teeny tiny) house and DOWNSIZE. But then as we got closer to the reality of selling, we heard Him again. 

"No need to buy, my children. Hang on. 
I've got ya. Wait till you see what I've got planned for you." 


So we rent knowing that when God says, "Go home" we will be ready to pack up and head south to our families. We're still praying that Sun Stand Still prayer that our journey will take us to Virginia. And we feel that God's preparing us to do just that.

But until that day comes, we will live out loud right here in the center of our town. We will go about our business with God's blessing. Believing that every single person we meet, work with, and bump up against was put in our path by Him. Doing what we can while we can right here in the mission fields of Connecticut. It's not lost on us that God brought us here to one of the most spiritually deprived places in the world (yes, the world) to draw us closer to Him through our church, our work, our very living here. And for that, we'll always have a soft spot for Windsor, Connecticut. 

Here, Kitchy Kitchy Kitchy

This house, this teeny tiny rental house we call home till Moses rescues us from captivity and delivers us to the Promised Land, has an abundance of features.

Not the ones typically extolled in a real estate listing. 

These are features you'd more likely spy in a vintage Sears & Roebuck catalog.

Let's take a tour of our 1950s cape, shall we?

Here we have the stair rail with spindles roughly a foot apart.

Charming, even if a modern-day code violation.

And this is the wallpaper inside the downstairs bath closet. 

I could practically brush my teeth in that reflection! 

A friend told me this stuff goes for the big bucks on Property Brothers. 

Here's the downstairs bath vanity, minus the top drawer which is being repaired. 

Thankfully, we didn't break it, and we don't own it.

For the first time in years we don't have a microwave/hood over the stove. 

In fact, so far, we've managed to live without a microwave at all.

Which is why Jiffy Pop and we are buds now.

So, what's this? A pull-out exhaust van. 

Simply pull it out and the fan automatically turns on!

And here's the dishwasher which is designed to match the cabinets.

That's something cool, actually, I think.

And inside, this is a vintage dishwasher that actually washes better than all our other dishwashers together.

Pistachio loves her new home. 

She fits in perfectly on the speckled formica, no?

Keurig (thanks, Mom and Richard!) loves his digs, too.

And he makes an easy cup of coffee.

And while we're in the kitchen, check out our kitchy kitchy flooring. 

There is no rug that will mask this.

Wallpaper...

Wallpaper...

Notice the curtain rod which extends well beyond the window. 

The curtains serve to give your eye a place to rest from all

that

wallpaper...

which stretches around the room.

Wallpaper....

Front door...

Yeah, retro, right?

It's solid wood, though, I can tell you that!

Fireplace 

This isn't a bad feature. Not even an odd feature in any way.

Except that Ein the Cat thought it was his litter box for the first few days here.

Ewwwwwwww. 

Camden heard aluminum foil was a good deterrent. Must work.

So there's the quirks that make us love this crazy old house more than it warrants. And then there's the fact that it's not a house that makes a home. It's the family you squeeze in it. 

Old Timey Popcorn

I suwannee, I know I hold this blog address. And I know I am expected to maintain it. But life has happened, so, this is what you get. 

And you get what you get and you don't throw a fit. 

(Except up here near Greenland which is really white on a globe, where they say, "you get what you get and you don't get upset."  I don't get that at all. 

So you won't seem me throwing a hissy fit over my new kitchen floor. 

Check out the pattern. 

It's so, patternly!

As of yet, we are living without a microwave for the first time since round about Jimmy Carter. Now we do popcorn the Jiffy Pop way. We break rules, too, popping over a glass-top stove, in a kitchen with a patterned floor. This takes nearly a quarter of an hour. 

The highlight of living in a tiny house (to which you will be granted an insider's pass in an upcoming blog, as if I have time to post these inane updates to my life) is the all new and improved FRIDAY NIGHT MOVIE NIGHTS! We've hosted exactly one (1) (uno) (I) such event and it was a roaring success. After popping popcorn that took way longer than 2.5 minutes, we returned to The Shakiest Gun in the West starring the inimitable Don Knotts. Oh my goodness, we all hooted, it was such a riot. Benjy was impressed that it was in color. Camden was all about the gestures and slapstick. I was all blessed and verklempt that we'd pulled off this crazy move and that it worked. God's plan so worked! (More on that in the future, possibly this weekend, but I'm promising nothin'.) (Also, the smeared pea green on the walls in the living room are now a soft sage. You can rest now.)