I don’t even know what happened yesterday, there was some weird stuff going down. (The zombies are coming! The zombies are coming!) I wrote a post about exercising asking about eating everything in my kitchen but the sink and begging for some workout music suggestions. And then…*crickets*—I actually got more traffic on Tuesday—the day I didn’t post anything—than I got yesterday. (Perhaps I should be watching Zombieland. It’s a really good movie, and, you know it may prepare me.) And then I asked on Facebook and Twitter about business cards and got about 87 responses! Amazing! You guys are amazing, also, you really like to talk about business cards! Obviously more than you like to talk about exercising and eating and music. (Who knew?) And then I tried to make a joke about it and confused people. (I wonder if Jessie Eisenberg likes to talk about exercising and food and music. I bet he does. We are like soul mates, on account of our mutual love of hoodies) 

See?

Ali Martell: Rocking hoodies and tutus since 1978.

At least I know where my kid gets it.

So yesterday happened. And now I wonder how you all feel about bathrooms, because that’s what I’m talking about today. (I may even mention something about kitchen furniture, if we are lucky!)

I still sometimes feel like I’m a kid who doesn’t deserve to live in a big-girl house. I walk into some houses and I’m just blown away, not by the bones of the house, but by the details. Not necessarily by paint colors and molding and furniture, but by the giraffe statue or the vintage coffee table or the homemade throw pillows. Our house has none of these touches. No, our house, instead, is a home. It’s more than lived-in. We have old falling-apart furniture in our kitchen, we have no artwork up—save for a hand-me-down painting that I try to avoid staring straight into, we even have a room that has no furniture in it (is it an office? is it a living room? Is it a photo studio? MYSTERY!).

And we have many, many bins filled with many, many things.

And don’t get me started on THE PILES. Why does everything end up in piles?

Bins and piles are my sworn enemies. 

As a kid, I remember having a junk drawer in our kitchen. It was the place where the things that had no home ended up. Rubber bands and hair clips and pens and bouncy balls and a piece of hubba bubba gum (origins unknown, but I sure took pleasure in popping that sucker into my gob) always ended up in that drawer. I kind of feel like my entire house is a giant junk drawer. We are overflowing with stuff. And it’s everywhere. Papers and photos and strange trinkets that came in various swag bags, artwork, toys, dolls, hair accessories, usb keys, actual keys, gloves, pencils that have no lead in them, school supplies. Where does all of this stuff even come from? For years, we blamed the kids. They are small, they are still going to vomit and poop in the incorrect receptacles, obviously, SO THAT IS WHY WE CANNOT HAVE NICE THINGS. But, my youngest is now 6, and I’m fairly certain my children’s bodily fluids make it to their proper homes, at least 90% of the time.

(We aren’t going to talk about the chocolate milk puke on my white rug.)

(No. We are not going to talk about that.)

(The only place in the entire house that isn’t covered in hardwood flooring.)

(No. Ignore!)

So, it’s time to grow up, get the SHIT out of the house. And bring on something nice, something with touches.

And that it why at 7:30pm on Monday, I dragged my kids out in the rain to buy two blue ceramic horses.

I don’t even know either. 

But now I am the proud owner of two horses.

The only other place in MY ENTIRE HOME that feels grown up is my master bathroom. We have been collecting white things, almost without realizing it, actually. And somehow they ended up on these empty shelves in our bathroom. Buddha statue FTW!

So it’s a start.

I mean, you guys, I LIKE nice things.

I just don’t how to get them, how to afford them, and how to convince myself that I deserve to have them.

But maybe I don’t really deserve them.

After all, there are five of us living in this house and somehow we all use the same bathroom. 

(Why is this? Why are my children unable to bathe, poop, pee, shower, or brush their teeth in their own bathroom?)

(Please tell me I’m not alone.)

(Also please tell me that one day I will be able to use my bathroom, alone, in peace.)

(PLEASE.)