These are just so riveting.

Except not.

So first we had the really amazing bathrooms at my former place of employment where you couldn’t see people’s feet & therefore not be able to properly detect who had the asparagus or coffee pee that morning.  Those bathrooms were all about preserving dignity.

Then there were Tall Girl Problems in Nashville.

I have to admit that with the peanut M&Ms in the breakroom & the chef-designed lunches in our cafes, not to mention the miles of running trails & on-campus gym, I was a little disappointed in the state of these bathrooms.  They’re basic & I half-way expected the toilet to do the work for me.

Here’s an overview of what we’re working with:

Unfortunately, you can see feet.  & there is space between the door & stalls so I can totally see what color pants you’re wearing or if you’re playing on your iPhone.

The toilet paper is the most fascinating, as it comes out like a tissue.  I’m guessing this is an effort to produce less waste?

Here’s to another day of me being the office weirdo that takes pictures of bathrooms.

So I got my hands on a iBooks copy & settled down into Chapter 1.

An hour later, I woke up my husband for sex.

Since then I have finished all three books & perhaps coincidentally, Doug has taken to bringing me flowers & wine in the evenings.

 The writing leaves a lot to be desired, there are blatant grammatical errors, & it feels a little wrong that this chick is making cash money off twisting Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight characters into literary porn stars.  I felt incredibly naughty reading it & not in the naughty minx way but in the oh shit, I am so glad nobody can see me reading this.  On the airplane the other day, I felt like whispering to the gal three rows in front that while everyone else on the plane thought she may have been reading a thriller mystery based on the black & white tie cover, I knew she was reading about some mealy-mouthed chick being tied to a table.

In short?  OH. MY.  ::fans self with tulips::

p.s. I’m not an artist.
p.p.s. I had way too much fun making bedhead & “highlights” in my hair.

2)  Make a pony tail.  Make it high & dance to Girls Just Wanna Have  Fun or Love Is A Battlefield.  Take your pick.

3)  Pour a glass of wine.

4)  Spend thirty minutes attempting to roll your hair into the donut, starting at the tip of your hair & working towards your scalp.  Curse a lot.

5)  Take a shot of vodka.

6)  Half-drunk, finally get the bun rolled.  Secure it with bobby pins.

7)  Mother-effing win.

2)  I lock myself in the bedroom/office & he physically attempts to beat down the door to get to me.  Wails of torture from both parties ensue.

3)  He uses intimidation & manipulation to prey on my weakness, all in hopes of getting me to open the door for a direct attack.  This includes cries of “MOMMA!” & shoving Matchbox cars under the door.

4)  Out of food & toilet paper, I must make the decision – open the door for a run to the kitchen & risk being spotted, or wither without supplies for the rest of the day?

5)  Should I open the door, any moment could be the end of my existance workday.

ahhhhh, he got me!

That goes under the blog “Lazy Girl Problems.”

That’s Morgan in one of the thousands of bathrooms at the Opryland Hotel in Nashville.  She’s not paying attention to me because a) she’s known me for 3 years & expects weird behavior or b) she’s also a blogger & understands weird behavior.

Huge bathroom, right?  Plenty o’ stalls but I still had beef with them.  See, Morgan is a short gal by tall girl standards & her head hits the top of the stall door.  This was my view:

Nope, I’m not standing on my toes.

It created an awkward moment or five after I used the facilities & had to scoot my shapewear back up over my rear.  & by “scoot,” I mean wiggled back & forth in a chicken dance until I was out of breath & my underwear was shoved up my ass, but my shapewear was on & up under my boobs so I just called it a success.  A panting, sweaty success.

That everyone got to witness as the top of my head bobbed around over the door & I looked like a drunk fish on the line.

Trout, anyone?

Unfortunately, this was  yesterday’s reality:

RAWR, baby.  Wrinkled tshirt, leggings, last night’s bun.  Even the room is messy.  I was one hot momma billing a ton of hours & yes, please check & respect the Thin Mints on the nightstand.  I need to put them away but ohsogood.

I did go out with Doug & my parents on Monday night to celebrate Valentine’s Day.  Yes, we double-dated with my parents & it was a grand ol’ time.

::  dress: shabby apple  ::  coat: anthropologie ::  tights: vera wang for kohl’s  ::  shoes: nine west  ::

oh, what’s that?  You wanted to see me looking sexy again?  Okay.

 You’re welcome.  Rock on, Wednesday.

Let me just say that I can stand in a board room or jet across the country, but I turn into a complete wuss once I step through Michaels.  All those women with glue stick burns on their fingers, willing to cut a bitch over the last vial of Martha Stewart glitter?  THEY TERRIFY ME.  Same thing with fabric stores.  Also, the strangest thing happens that once I hit the first aisle, I completely forget what I was there for.  Confidence takes a crash & burn so I stand there in the aisles, completely overwhelmed by the choices in felt.

In short:
Before Michaels:  BIG SPARKLY INSPIRATIONAL UNICORNS OF HAPPINESS!

After Michaels:  I WILL NEVER ACHIEVE ANYTHING GOOD IN MY LIFE.

yeah.

I’m standing in line with Harry in the push cart & a matronly lady turns to me.

“Is your mother’s name Karen?” she asks.

“No,” I say politely.

“You look like my friend Karen, so I figured you must be her daughter,” she explains.  I shrug.  Raleigh is a pretty decent-sized city.

“With two children, I figured you had to be her,” she persists.

Is this lady drunk?  I only have one child in the seat & I’m pretty sure the firstborn’s that were traded for Christmas Cricuts weren’t eligible for the 40% off coupon.  Like I said, I’m on a budget so if it’s not on sale, it’s not in my cart.

“You know,” she says.  ”With your boy & the one on the way.”

oh.

shit.

Awkward silence abounds.

Does this lady not know Rules of Feminism #253: Don’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless the fetus is 75% down the birth canal with a hand waving?

(You know how I like to jump the gun.)

I spend my free time perusing the houses available in the neighborhoods we love, calculating mortgages & downpayments, wishing that our house would sell RIGHT THIS INSTANT BECAUSE DOUG! COME LOOK AT THIS HOUSE!  & then I hop on Pinterest & decorate the entire thing in my head.

Of course, my head doesn’t have a budget in mind which is a very lovely thing when I’m pinning Anthropologie & Amy Butler fabrics.

I’m in this awful stage right now of having so many ideas & dreams for decorating, but not wanting to “waste” them on the house we are selling.  Especially since the goal is to keep our current house as sparkling clean & sparse as possible. 

Sell, house.  Sell!

Yeah, they’re still happening two years later.

So I’m sitting there at my desk, happily tapping away at expenses & BAM! there’s a flutter in my uterus area.  It’s enough to make me take pause & freak the eff out that OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO BE ON “I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT.” 

But then I remember that I’m already doing that female thing (send nachos & wine!) & we are staunch supporters of the Trojan man & there is simply NO WAY there is a bambino kicking away in my uterus.

But still.

Totally trippy.