The (sheltered) men in my life.

No, this post isn't going to be about my husband nor is it about my son. Actually, it's going to be about my dogs. (If you're a rescued cat lover, I have one of those too, but she's a girl...so suck it up and read on.)


Have you ever been into a shelter or pound? I don't ever remember going as a child, and knowing my mother, she would have spared us of that torture. But when I was 18, I ventured into the Mahoning County Dog Pound, a 72 hour kill facility, for the first time in my life. I was interested in attaining a puppy and I had every intention of saving a life.

I'll never forget the noises I heard the moment I entered the door to the outer hall. The block building was full to the hilt with dogs, every cage full. Some of them even had a few dogs sitting together, and a few others had full litters of puppies in them. And very few of them were quiet.

Instead, they were screeching and barking and yipping and doing what they could to get my attention. I had never felt so wanted in my life.

I was told which dogs were not friendly, and indeed, when I passed the crates, I was welcomed with a snarl or a warning bark. But for the most part, there were wagging tails and smiling faces and ears facing forward, as 50 plus dogs tried to garner my interest. I passed the older ones, though, and headed to the puppy crates.

I wanted a baby. Something to be trained and brought up in the way I wanted to. I was looking for something I could care for, something young and vibrant, as I was living with death. You see, I was staying with my grandparents at that time in my life and my grandfather's health was rapidly declining as he lay in the living room, dying from pancreatic cancer.

I needed to bring a life home. I needed to focus my attention on something that was going to live, something I could actually rescue and keep from dying, because I knew there was nothing any of us could do for the man who spent 18 years raising me as if I was his own daughter.

So I had the keeper open a pen full of wiggly brown balls of fur and one of them chose me. He was soft and cuddly and he couldn't lick my face fast enough. On top of it, he smelled like cocoa. It was love at first sight and without another look back, we left the dog pound together.

It was the first time I had ever bought anything that large, as all my prior pet purchases were always able to live in a tank. So with the puppy on my lap, we headed home. I named him Speagle because I could tell he had some beagle in him, and I just liked the name. I snuck him into the house past my grandfather, because I knew in his condition, he wouldn't have wanted a dog in the house. But my grandmother and I both felt it would help us a little bit as long as it didn't hurt him.

So Speagle spent his days in my room way in the back of the house, playing and waiting for me to arrive home from school, when I would spend the rest of the evening romping around after him. Things were going well until his first bath, when a floppy, wet puppy raced through the house and the smell of cocoa permeated the rooms. Suddenly, my grandfather realized there was a dog afoot. He called me over to his hospital bed and asked to see the animal, so dutifully I produced the puppy. As I watched his nose crinkle and his eyes darken, I knew what was next. He began retching from the smell of the puppy and waved me off immediately.

You see, his cancer and pain medicine had changed his ability to tolerate certain smells. We were limited to what we could cook, bring in the house to eat, or even with what perfumes or bath soaps we used. For example, popcorn would have him heaving almost immediately, as would any type of meat product. And it became apparent to us that chocolate also gave him the same reaction. Without another word of discussion with me, he spoke to my grandmother the next day and demanded the puppy be taken back to the pound. She broke the news to me after school and suddenly I was faced with a horrible realization. I had just saved this puppy from death a mere month before, and now I'd have to put it back in a place where it was sure to face the same fate as before.

I couldn't do it.

I sat down with my grandmother and insisted that she give me the time to find the puppy a good home. He was a great dog, very loving and obedient for how young he was, and I couldn't let him face death twice. Lucky for both of us, she agreed and she lent me the money to place an ad in the paper.

We had him a new home within a few days and together, we drove to drop him off. I can remember crying as I held the puppy out for the man who was taking him off my hands; I was unable to say anything to him but I remember that he was Greek and had just moved to America. His family was replacing a dog he had left back home. When the older woman and the family surrounding him started telling him the puppy was for him, all he said in broken English was, "Dog?" and then Speagle was gone. The group enveloped him and the puppy, each trying to get a look at their newest family member.

I turned and walked back to Nana, who seemed a little melancholy herself. Without speaking, we got in the car and drove home, happy to see the dog had gone to a family who welcomed it so, but sad to see the little guy go at the same time.

So flash forward 16 years. Our rottie had just passed away and my husband was beside himself with shock and despair. I waited a month, knowing we had put down another of our dogs 18 months prior and had also found yet another one a home where she could be the only dog in the pack.We were down to one at the time, Koty, our 12 year old standard poodle. And as Patrick sat in the living room, I headed out to petfinders.com for the umpteenth time to look for our next baby.

I had come across so many already. Mixes, most of them. Some I called on, others I passed by knowing they'd be picked up without issue because of their size or color or breed. And then I came to this face --->

My mind went back to my senior year in high school when a puppy that smelled like cocoa had graced my life for a month or so. He was the same brown with the same dark muzzle, and his ears were floppy just like this puppy. It only took me a second to realize we had found our boy.

I put a call in quietly to Noah's Ark and they informed me he was still available.  They were calling him "The Rock" because his muscle tone and gorgeous brown eyes reminded someone there of Dwayne Johnson. I told her without a doubt, please put a hold on him and we'd be down first thing in the morning to see him.

He was six months old and he was listed as a "Boxer/Cur". That's a generic term they use when they don't want to tell you there's pitbull in there somewhere, because pits don't find homes in most cases. But it didn't deter me one bit. I showed Patrick his picture and then we told Jaryd. I'm not sure any of us slept that night as we anticipated meeting this bundle of love.

But the next day, we arrived to a shelter full of potential adopters and several volunteers. Scared we wouldn't get the dog we wanted, we agreed to at least look at the others if he was no longer available. Patrick and Jaryd waited outside the ruckus, and I dove into the melee looking for someone to point me in the direction of my new baby. I was told he was on a walk with a volunteer and would return shortly. It left me in a lurch.

I was back in an old scene suddenly, with dogs barking and screaming, hitting their cages with their paws trying to get attention. I wasn't sure I was going to make it standing up so I bent over and began to rub the head of the nearest dog around me.

Meanwhile, my husband was sitting outside with Koty and Jaryd, waiting for me to bring out "The Rock". As the volunteers started coming back in from the woods, he noticed a puppy pass him that really struck his fancy and he remembers commenting to Jaryd about how beautiful and sleek the dog was as it passed. He decided he was going to ask to see that one if ours had already been adopted out.

But that switch wasn't in the cards. The same puppy Patrick had seen walked back through the doors with the volunteer, passed the 20 people in the room and headed right up to me. He then proceeded to jump on my back and pantsed me in front of this room full of strangers. As I was hurriedly pulling up my drawers, I turned around to see what would be the next love of my life.

It was love at first sight for all of us and we brought him home, happy to have saved a life. As we were leaving the shelter, I gave the family the option of names. "Tater Salad", as a dedication to our then favorite comedian Ron White, or "Diesel". (The boys chose the latter and we later learned he would definitely live up to his name, but that's a story for another time.)

Eighteen months passed and Koty was sliding downhill. We knew she wouldn't be with us much longer, so we went back to petfinder.com and began our search anew. This time, I wanted something smaller in the house, a dog that would fit nicely into Diesel's routine.

I decided on a Beagle mix and focused my search on finding the right one, which is how we rescued Toby Joe. You'll see him on the right, in the back, behind 2 of his brothers from the litter. There were 5 or 6 of them, total, and none of them even resembled Toby, or Mr. Moseby, as he was known back then. Right then, I knew he was special.

Again, we went down and picked him out; this scared, shy little puppy that was in distress from the noise and anxiety of the other dogs. He was shaking and tense, his little body as hard as a rock and about as unforgiving. He couldn't relax and he couldn't trust, he had been through so much more than any of the rescuers knew, but one thing was obvious - humans had not been kind to him during his puppyhood. It took me a while, but I eventually won him over, and before long, he and Diesel were best buds. Now, as those who have heard his protests can attest, the two of them are inseparable.

So where does that leave us? Ahhh, yes. It leaves us in the middle of the love story we have with these dogs. Both rescues. Both originally in kill shelters as puppies because there are too many born every year that people throw away. Too many that aren't sought-after purebreds or designer dogs, too many that look like pit bulls (or have pit in them) and too many that aren't chubby, wiggly and happy, which are the ones families gravitate towards first.

Instead of buying, instead of breeding, we went with the alternative route on these two and we couldn't have asked for better dogs. All of our dogs have been special, no doubt, with each of them having a certain charm that endeared us to them for eternity. But these two, these two are brothers in every sense of the word. And we, their human parents. It's like they remember, and have possibly shared their tragic and scary pasts, and they know we were the ones who gave them homes with warm beds to sleep in, and fresh water to drink, and nutritious food to eat. They are thankful, still, after all this time, and they show us that with their demeanors and their enduring loyalty.

So in closing, I just want to say that from that first puppy 20 years ago to the latest 2, rescuing is the way to go. You're saving a life and the dogs know it. Their fidelity to you for doing so will be their greatest asset as pets and they will never let you down. I haven't met a rescued dog yet that gave up on his rescuers.

And when it comes to love, what better way to spread it than by saving an animal's life? I can't think of  one, can you?

The decision to stay.

So this month will mark the 90 day anniversary of our move to Florida. For the first two months, I will admit I couldn't relax. I just kept thinking some huge cosmic rubber band was going to snap us back up north against our will. But my husband convinced me that our future is up to us. It's our decision where we end up and how we do when we get there.

So after much discussion, we decided to really put down some roots here. And by roots, I mean deck legs. Yes, we are building a deck. Well, no, we aren't. OMG. It's 100 freaking degrees out there! I mean, we are paying to have a deck built. One of the guys in the park works with another of the guys here and they build decks for the full-timers.

So this will make it official. Well, as official as it gets, I guess. I mean, when we do eventually leave, we can't take the deck with us. We'll have to "give" it to the resort like the one in Ohio that we bought used and already on-site at the campground there. But in the meantime, if you spread the payment out over 12 months, it's literally cheaper than the total monthly cost of Patrick's Dunkin Donut runs. How could we not add 128 square feet of living space?

It's going up over the patio area so we'll be forsaking a wonderful piece of concrete. But it will add a whole bunch of extra space for the dogs and I plan on buying some screen panels and hanging them from the awning so we'll finally be able to eat outside without being eaten alive ourselves!


After all, that is also where I cook every night.

Now, yes, for those of you who have never seen our humble abode, we do have a full kitchen setup inside. However, as any of you who have lived in smaller homes/apartments know, whatever you cook can and will smell up your entire house for days, especially if the rooms are open to each other. Well, in our home, every room but the bathroom is open to the  main area and I'd really appreciate it if my clothes didn't smell like frying fish, baking clams or even the occasional splurge of garlic-laden homemade red sauce. 

So some reconsideration of our set up was necessary if we were going to do live this lifestyle long-term.

First, we took the two old grills to metal recycling and bought a new smaller grill for 2 people (Bonus for the future: it's easy enough and tiny enough to get on a condo patio without paying movers to help). It's a pretty nice model that has enough room for 6-8 half pound hamburgers, which is still more than we would need, but it's got a great compact footprint, especially with the sides down.

It's only about 2x2 and it's fairly no frills, but it does have a really nice ceramic coated inside and it seems to cook very well. But will it hold up? We're notoriously hard on our grills, going through a gas grill every two seasons since we even grill throughout the winter months. Our longest lasting grill was the stainless steel Jenn Air Patrick bought with his first bonus check from BAE, and that lasted us 8 years. But not without all 3 burners dying on us and the starter going fairly early on.

So the BBQ is taken care of. We could grill meats and crisp up corn and potatoes, but what about pasta and sauce? Or frying anything? Our only other modes of cooking are in the microwave or in the toaster/convection oven combo inside. Back to the drawing board.

And that's how we got to investing a small bit into this new diddy:

She's a beaut, ain't she? I named her Sally the Stove. (I don't know why, she just looks like a Sally to me.) We had been eyeing her since we decided to do this trip and then when Patrick started working, we took the plunge and brought her home. Well, really, FedEx was kind enough to deliver her to us from her previous home at Amazon, but you get the picture.

She's got 2 burners, 30,000 BTU's each (your home stove is lucky if it's got 10,000 BTU burners on it as most are 5,000 and 7,500), so of course that means no teflon-coated pots lest we die from poisoning as it melts off the aluminum. (Did I mention I can boil 5 quarts of water in just under 3 minutes on her?)

Nope, everything has to go to cast iron or copper clad. Being that the cost of copper is outrageous and cast iron will last long enough to eventually be willed to my grandkids, we decided to go with the cheaper and longer lasting of the two.

So that then meant I had to add a few pieces to my already established collection of Lodge cast iron cookware. (Do you see where this is going? Have you caught on yet?)

Let me just state this before we go any further:

I LOVE LODGE COOKWARE.

If you've eaten at my house, you've probably been fed from my gorgeous rooster-red ceramic coated dutch oven. It is the bomb! Everything I've ever made in it comes out perfect each time. I can't tell you how much I love this piece!

From a whole 8lb 30 clove garlic chicken to enough Di Russo's sausage links to feed 30 people at 2010's Christmas Dinner, plus all the green peppers, onions and mushrooms it could hold, this baby is one beautiful and solidly build work horse that goes from the stove to the oven and back again with no issue.

All in a striking red paint job. Brilliant!

However, she's currently packed away  and buried in an unmarked and inaccessible box in the storage room. ACK!

So I had to head to Walmart and find something to replace her when we first came down here and were cooking right on the grates of the old grills. We picked up a 6" skillet, a grill pan and another 5 qt dutch oven. I figured that's a good start.

But I just felt with this new stove, there were still a few pieces missing. I searched online to see what else would make me a gourmet full-timing chef and I came across a griddle and this nifty combination of dutch oven base (that I'm going to use for making pasta and sauce in since it has a nice rounded bottom) and lid that doubles as a 10" skillet.

 

Now we're talking...

But how did this lead to the deck, you ask? 

Well, have you ever carried cast iron cookware? It's heavy. With food in it, it's freaking heavy!

So the way things were set up, we had the grill and the stove on the patio, which was down the 3 precarious shifty metal steps of our rig. Carrying food in and out meant having to brave a trip up and down this staircase that rocks like one of those carnival fun-house get-ups. Add to that a 20 lb pot of steaming hot liquidy food and you've got yourself a definite recipe for disaster.

So we opted to have the deck built.

Now all I will have to do at dinner time is step directly out the door onto a nice level surface, with my stove and my grill not but 5 feet away. No steps, no traversing concrete, no extra danger of scalding myself as I try to climb back up 3 wobbly stairs with 20 pounds of food and cookware in my hands. 

And it gives us somewhere to put the picnic table, a few of the wrought iron chairs we got from Craigslist, and second best of all, it gives the dogs somewhere to go outside where they will be safely confined so they can watch the world around them instead of staring at me blankly all day, stuck inside.

And if all else fails, while we're still here, it will double as a very weighted place to tie down all our outside stuff during the hurricanes...

Because if you know me at all, you know that's the main reason I signed on to have it built in the first place.  ;)

I'm with Stupid

First and foremost, please let's get it straight that I'm not referring to Patrick.

No, I'm actually referring to the mutt that I have been assigned to walk every day.

We have two mutts right now but one of them has to be the most stubborn, hard-headed, focus-challenged dog I've ever owned.

For those of you who know my dogs, I'm talking about Toby Joe.

For those that don't, please know he is a sweetheart. Don't let me give you the wrong idea about the dog, but thank God he has that saving grace because otherwise he and I would be having much stronger issues.

I do want to set up this scenario properly. We have always had a fenced yard. From the moment we brought Toby home in October of 2008, he has only had to "go" on a leash for about the first 2 weeks when we still had the camper down the shore. Otherwise, we had merely to open the back door and let him outside into our fenced mountainside, where he seemed to know just what to do. Even our pet-sitter in Vernon was impressed how easily he learned from our older dogs to go outside, do his business and come right back in.

The Westview house had a nice flat, fenced backyard that the dogs loved and once again, in and out, no problems. Valley View was only a 30 by 6 foot fenced run, but he was quick and disciplined. Out and back in within 3 minutes.

So why would we think we'd have a problem with him when we had to put a leash on him? After all, we've had him for just shy of 3 years, and he has been very good about going about his business then coming right back in when we've let him out.

But I should have known there was going to be a problem when after riding 4 or 5 hours in the truck on the way down here, Patrick couldn't convince Toby to follow Diesel's lead and mark the trees when we stopped for a break. It took a good 12 to 13 hours before he'd relieve himself, usually where we had stopped to overnight.

The second clue I should have had was that he's part Beagle, which makes his first interest "prey". We couldn't have a bird, squirrel or rabbit in the yard without his shrieking yelp announcing the invasion from his view inside the house. It didn't matter the time of day or night, he'd let us know there was a "visitor" outside and made sure the rest of the neighborhood knew it, too.

So is it really any wonder I find myself so flabbergasted with getting this dog to focus on relieving himself as we walk through the resort?

To my husband's credit and at his insistence, we were taking them down to the dog park twice a day, where, after running 10 laps around the huge fenced in area, Toby would promptly do number one and number two on each visit. However, we moved across the resort from the dog area, to where the walk in the heat is too much for me with my asthma; and on top of it, they were having diarrhea while using it, which made me nervous about worms. So much did the worm issue bother me that I'd have both Patrick and I studying the poo very closely before picking it up. I still wonder how that looked to the folks who had sites around the dog park and were watching these two transplants squatting on the ground, staring at excrement in the 90 degree heat. Idiots with a poo fascination, I guess. (I still look, but we walk them where there aren't any sites now, so I feel a bit more casual about examining the poo for parasites.)

But at any rate, last week, when we moved over here, he didn't go for 24 hours at a time as he was strapped to a leash and unsure of how to act. Diesel didn't seem to have much issue at all, and once I started carrying treats with us to try to help with training, Diesel has since learned to pee on every tree he comes across, then he stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to reward his leg-lifting endeavors. Toby, on the other hand, who is usually my food-obsessed pooch, couldn't care less about the treats.

Instead, he's completely, wholeheartedly, decisively focused on every squirrel, duck and bird that happens to be in the field behind the pond. He chirps at the door in the morning and early evening, seeming to want to be let out to lighten his load; but instead, all he cares about are the animals around us. As he pulls me violently across the green grass to the treed area where we take them, you would think his urgency had to do with internal pressure. Instead, he gets to where we're going and then acts as any good hunting dog would. He stands there. Rock solid. Feet planted. Muscles taut. Eyes glued to each and every movement happening around us. And no amount of my pleading, encouragement or demanding can take his focus off the animals he is stalking.

I can't convince him with food. I can't bully him with commands. I can't even lure him with the smell of Diesel's markings. No. There is nothing that can interfere with his unwavering dedication to hunting the critters around us.

So today I started chiding him about his intelligence. Patrick even suggested I get a shirt that reads, "I'm with Stupid". And it was all fun and jokes until my husband then says, "Here, if I take him and he goes, will you pick it up?" Okay, uh, sure.

Patrick puffs out his chest, pulls back his shoulders, hands me the leash of the big dog and then grabs Toby's leash out of my hands. As I stand there with Diesel, I watch as my husband trugs along with the 35-lb Beagle dragging along behind him, like a stilted, cardboard cutout. Nothing he tried worked either. Then as if to solidify our incompetence as Beagle trainers, a squirrel ran up the tree in front of us and sat right over us on the towering branches, with Toby's eyes glued to it like his life depended on it.

As we stared up into the tree at the gray rodent that seemed to be mocking us and our difficult dog, we realized we needed a new strategy. Although he's extremely easy to train when it comes to tricks, he's absolutely horrible on the leash. His focus is completely off us, especially when we come across another animal, whether it be a woodland creature or another dog, and his screeching and screaming at their presence is hugely annoying, to say the least.

So the first thing we did when we arrived back at the RV was look up training collars. We're ratcheting up our efforts a bit and we're taking things to a new level. Somehow we need to break the bad habits and then, when he's ready to accept the positive rewards (treats), begin again with the leash training.

It worked with Spark. It worked with Jaz. It works every day with Diesel...with him, you just snap that collar on him and with a beep, he's a different dog. So how will Toby react?

I'm not sure any dog can beat Diesel's reaction the first time he was buzzed (if you've got some time, remind me to tell that story!) I still almost pee myself with laughter when I remember his first time and as much as I don't want to come off callous and mean, it's quite impressive how the training collars get their attention.

I just don't know what else to do with Toby and we're pretty much out of options. If he won't go, he can physically hurt himself and possibly need a vet visit. On top of that, I best not come back to the RV to find he's gone inside.

So until I can get him a collar and a remote, we're going to use Diesel's to begin to train him. We'll see how long it takes until we get his attention and his focus is back on the pack alphas and their commands again.

And I hope it works quickly...For Patrick's sake, I'd hate to have to order that t-shirt.

288 Square Feet

"The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak." - Hans Hofmann, Introduction to the Bootstrap, 1993
 
In a home, 288 square feet would make a nice sized space. You figure, that's 14 feet by 20 feet, plus some. With a sofa, loveseat, easy chair and a TV and you've got a living room. For a dining room, 8-10 people could be seated comfortably around a long country-style table with a fairly large china closet against a wall.

My first real apartment in Brookchester, over in New Milford, NJ, was 400 square feet and 288 of that would have been 3 full rooms. Still not bad if you're prepared for apartment living in post-war housing.

But then you've got our 288 square feet of internal space. In it, we have a bathroom, 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and we had to forgo the dining space for an office built to fit 2 people and run a business out of. Now granted, if you add the outdoor space under our awning, as most RV people do, there's another 119 feet you don't want to squander. So, that gives us a total of 407 square feet to make a home. In reality, it's actually bigger than my first apartment, because there you weren't allowed to place anything outside, and those extra 7 feet are to be cherished.

"Small rooms or dwellings discipline the mind, large ones weaken it." - Leonardo Da Vinci
 
So what's it like living in a space so small?

Well, let's make it clear the two humans in this tin box aren't alone. There are fellow travelers that reside with us. In the top bunk in the back bedroom, a 14 lb fuzzy 7-year-old cat makes her home. She's in the top floor condo, enjoying her sky-eye view across the RV. Her gear fills up a lot of her space, but she's made it home and seems to be settled in.

Under her, two canines have taken the lower floor condo (read: bottom bunk). Our big boy, a 70 lb mix who loves his humans a little too much sometimes, shares his residence with his little brother, a 35 lb mix, who has a mind of his own. Together, they sleep on a top-of-the-line baby mattress, with their toys, bones, food and water bowls surrounding them.

Then we have two humans. Patrick and I. We share the rest of the space. Barely. I say that because it's hard to share space that only 1 human/canine/feline can occupy at a time. You see, the RV is quite large inside without all our "stuff". But between 2 big office chairs, the rocking chair that came with the trailer and the island we built that I just had to have, there is a small aisle of about 2 feet that leads from our bedroom at the bow to the bathroom, in the stern. We spend most of the day sliding past the other person in that aisle because what we need is always on the other side of the warm body in our way.

Add to that 3 critters that are always underfoot and you can imagine how tight things are.

But I say that lovingly.

"Out of intense complexities, intense simplicities emerge." - Winston Churchill

After all, small houses bring closeness. There's not much between these walls that takes up as much space as our love for each other, even though pictures would belie that fact. Love for the pets that share our lives. Love for the child that is living 1,173 miles from us and never calls (that's a hint if you're reading this - CALL YOUR MOTHER!) Love for the sunshine outside that gives us a wonderful boost of Vitamin D and a healthy, positive outlook on the future. Or love for the cool air conditioning when that blazing ball of gas in the sky gets to be a bit too much for our delicate, Northern-born skin.

Yes, we have frustrations as we trip over each other or hand things to each other to "hang up", "put away", or "hide". And even sometimes the animals are frustrated with the size of the space, preferring to go back to their "condos" to hide out in the open space the bunks provide for them.

But all in all, as we hang hooks up and down the walls for things we will use (umbrellas, keys, dog leashes, etc.) or as we move the giant, 250 lb island back and forth so we can see the TV or access our bedroom, it all leads us to appreciate the roof over our head even more. And more than anything, it begs us to simplify. It forces us to choose. It makes us live "honestly" and "simply".

It's not a huge space by any American standard, but it's our space. It's our home for the time being, and if it gets too tight in here, we have a lovely lot that gives us another 1500 feet of space to move around in. Of course, depending on our length of time here, there may be gardens in the future and once again, we'll be resigned to following "paths" to the outside areas we plan on accessing.

But as I sit here and look out at the grounds around me, the resorts' fire pit area with it's rustic charm, the flower-laden picnic area and inlet pond to our left, the beautiful blue pool surrounded by towering palms, sea blue umbrellas and crisp white fencing to my right, I realize that no matter how small the inside of this trailer really is, there's a whole world out there calling to us. Inviting us to make it our home, encouraging us to make use of that space. Insisting it's okay to lose ourselves in the room it offers.

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." - Leonardo DaVinci

And of course, there's that screen room  we put on order. It should arrive by next Friday. And not a moment too soon!