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Small minds talk about people living in tiny houses

There are several programs on cable dedicated to the “tiny house” movement. Indicative of the creative forces involved with these shows, all feature the word “tiny” in their titles:

• Tiny House, Tiny Nation
• Tiny House Builders
• Tiny House, Big Living
• Tiny Hands, Tiny House
• It’s Not “Tiny,” Doctor, It’s “Ticonderoga, New York”

Whenever my wife forces encourages me to watch one of these programs, we always marvel at the ingenuity involved with the design and construction of these shrunken abodes. A bed folds into the wall and has artwork buckled to its underside; a hibachi is retro-fitted for propane and serves as the stove; the vegetable crisper in the refrigerator doubles as a sock drawer.

Fad aside, “Tiny” isn’t even the smallest acknowledged house size. According to one industry website, “right-sized” homes are broken down into these categories, from smallest to largest: Micro, Compact, Miniature, Tiny, Little, Small, Efficiency, Reduced and Downsized. These distinctions undoubtedly lead to conversations like this: “Oh, what a darling ‘Tiny’ house you have! Of course, we gave ours up years ago in order to reduce our carbon footprint down to pinky-toe level, when we moved into our ‘Micro’ home. It has everything you could possibly need — the only accommodations we’ve had to make are to take all our meals at Burger King, and Nash showers at his office so the triplets can get ready for school in the morning.”

During the big reveal, the homeowners see their completed domicile for the first time — usually with an unexpected flourish like a skylight, or a red wagon from childhood fashioned into a coffee table, or when they now learn for space considerations the kitchen sink and bassinet have been placed outside. My wife watches rapturously from her vantage point on our couch (a couch which could not possibly fit into any of these tiny houses and would be replaced by a reclaimed park bench — or perhaps, as an example of multi-function ingenuity, by a pair of toilets set side-by-side facing the media center). She’ll turn toward me (which would be tough from her perch on the toilet, so scotch that idea) and express her desire to design, build and move into a tiny house of our very own. While I hate to harsh her buzz, it becomes my responsibility to point out we already live in a “tiny” house, since our dining room table also serves as a file cabinet, bookshelf, cat bed and ironing board.

If she’s looking for a small space within which to carry out the functions of daily living, I remind her we already thrive in one, known as our bedroom. We eat, sleep and watch TV within its four walls and can even enjoy the outdoors from an adjoining deck. Out of discretion I don’t include “… and occasionally use it as a bathroom” so as not to remind her of those times when, settling in for the evening, she starts laughing so uncontrollably while watching random Facebook videos on her phone that she pees right through to the mattress.

Why hasn’t someone developed a series about long-time married couples living in reasonably-sized housing and yet every single thing belonging to the husband is shoved to the back of the guest room closet? They could call it I Live Here Too, You Know. I’d watch that show. As long as a certain somebody stretched out next to me on the bed promises not to laugh.

— John Branning

This essay is adapted from John Branning’s e-book Selfie-Facing: Analog Musings in a Digital World — a collection of his funniest pieces, along with a few clunkers thrown in for comparison. His work (if you can call humor blogging “work”) has appeared in The Hilario, Defenestration and the Bangor Daily News in Maine. You can find more of John’s writing at, along with some annoying pop-up ads.

Reflections of Erma