Toilet Talk 

When your week goes to poop, it’s only natural to #fbf to when it was worse. Here’s to having some really shitty luck. Literally. 

Nothing strikes more fear into my heart than rising water in a toilet bowl. Even realizing my alarm clock failed me, or discovering I’ve worn my black panties that say, “Only if You’re Lucky” on the ass, with my white skinny slacks, to school doesn’t hit me as hard and sudden as realizing poop water is about to run like Niagara Falls all over my linoleum. 

Am I right? Or, am I the only one who uses half a roll of toilet paper AND forgets to courtesy flush? Surely I’m not the only tool who has felt this cold fear. Surely. 

Let me tell you what is worse than an overflowing toilet onto linoleum: an overflowing toilet onto carpet. Before I move on, can I express my utter disgrace for whoever thought carpet in a bathroom was a good idea? IT’S A HORRIBLE IDEA. 

Years ago, I lived with my boyfriend’s mom. Not only was the bathroom adorned with 80’s-special red counter tops, and gold finishes everywhere, the entire floor was carpeted. It was terrifying. 

How can one confidently use a bathroom with carpet under their feet? Not only did my skin crawl wondering how many pee germs, courtesy of my boyfriend, and God-knows-what creepy crawlies were inhabiting the carpet circling the toilet, but the fear of overflowing the toilet was a very real, daily emotion. 

I’m known among my family and friends as the Toilet Paper Monster. I know, glamorous. Basically, I can easily use half a roll of toilet paper in one trip to the bathroom. My dad says every time, and I’m not shitting you, every time, I come over, “Better make a run to Costco, Katie’s here”. Not funny anymore, Dad. 

I see not one thing wrong with wanting an extra clean derrière. 

Not only was I known, in my childhood home, as one who possibly ate toilet paper-for what other explanation was there-I was a professional toilet overflowerer. All I had to do was yell, “Mom!”, in a panicked tone for her to come, immediately, running with the mop, a plunger, and bleach. 

Well, back to the 80’s bathroom nightmare. After an especially long crappy day (see what I did there?), I was running, pinched cheeks, to the bathroom (what a wonderful visual. I’m trying to make this as minimally unsavory as possible, but we are talking toilet paper and overflowing toilets here). 

After I had done my business and used my usual half-a-roll share, the time came to flush. I stopped. A hot sweat immediately dampened my skin. 

Had I flushed? Did I courtesy flush? 

I looked.



What do I do? What do I do? 

I’m just going to have to flush and pray. 

OK. Here we go. 

Nope. I can’t do it. Maybe we can just forget about this toilet. It’s a loss. 

No. Flushing has to happen. It must be done. 

*Deep breath*

3, 2, 1, FLUSH

I think it’s going to go down. 

Momentary relief flows through my veins. That is, until…

That doesn’t sound right. Wait. No. 

No, no, please, Lord Jesus, no! 

I jump up-pants around ankles-and whip around to face the pain. 


Bile is rising, my stomach is clenched firmly in fear’s fist, and my mind is blank. 

I’m not here. This isn’t happening. I refuse to believe it. 

Nope, this is very real. What are you waiting for, asshole? 

I frantically lift the top to the tank. I pull the bobber-ma-jiggy, like my exasperated mom taught me. It does nothing. 

Racing against the clock, I get on my hands and knees, onto the ill-fated carpet, and reach for the water valve. 

It’s not going to stop. 

THAT is going to be all over the carpet. 

How will I tell Linda? 

How will I ever live this down? I will forever be The Girl Who Stained My Carpet With Her Poo Water. 

I almost faint. It’s all too much. It’s bare-assed, primal fear. I can only   imagine what the scene would look like if someone walked in. Anyone witness to the mess I was, would immediately be struck blind. *shudders*

With the water shut off, the offensive contents have finally ceased rising. Precisely a millimeter above the edge-the point of no return-it’s stopped. 

I’m stunned, relieved, physically and mentally exhausted, numb. 

With a sweat-lined lip, I mouth, “Thank you, baby Jesus. Thank you”. 

What do I do now? 

The water level wouldn’t allow a plunger, even a mere pube would reverse what my fervent prayers and sweating worked so hard to prevent. 

By the utter grace of God, the water starting draining, and a white bowl dotted with my disgrace started to show. 

I am the luckiest bitch on this planet. 

No one has ever heard my story. It was a very hard, embarrassing story to tell. Maybe my words can help save someone’s dignity, or at the very least, their flooring. 


It won’t. 

WTF Wednesdays #9: I ❤️ Jeff Goldblum 

You mean, I’m the only girl, in all of history, to have ever had a crush on Jeff Goldblum at the tender age of 13? 

Ya’ll missed out. Big time. 

In 1996, the original Independence Day movie came out. Like every other red-blooded American, I saw it in the theater approximately 80 times. Each new time I saw it, I grew more and more infatuated with Jeff Goldblum. 

I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was those massive ears. Or, his ginormous nose? Maybe his awkward, bumbling speech. I think it was his brain, to be perfectly honest. 


What 13-year-old girl would be into that?

While my friends were losing their proverbial shit over Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Devon Sawa, I was privately panting over a man who was only 

I was a really weird kid.

After drooling in my Milk Duds over him on the big screen one too many times, I set about finding other movies he did, so I could pant in private. 

It is totally beyond me how I could have researched him without the internet and IMDb. I’m seriously at a loss-how did people research pop culture in the 90s? Someone, help! 

Pretty quickly, I realized he was in Jurassic Park. I watched that VHS so many times, I burned up the tape. 

I also somehow found out he was in a really weird movie that came out when I was three, called The Fly. The fact he was a human-sized fly didn’t matter, because he was naked in that one. I “lost” The Fly when it was time to return it to Blockbuster. I had to pay the fee, but it was so worth it. 

Because I was not exactly nonchalant about my weird girl-crush-obsession with Jeff Freaking Goldblum, my mom caught on pretty quickly. 

She always aimed to raise dorks, because, “Dorks go to school, hang out with their dork friends, don’t do drugs or drink, and never get in trouble.” 

My mom couldn’t have been more elated that my first crush was on an intelligent and nerdy-looking man I’d never meet. She was thrilled. (Never mind the fact that he could have been my father. Nope. Not weird at all.) 

For Christmas that year, my mom seemed to have a certain gleam in her eye. It was almost devious. I just figured she was pretty stoked about getting me that Discman I wanted. 

When it was finally Christmas Day, my mom was practically doing the Fat Clap. Instead of making my brother, because he was small and low to the ground, pass out the presents, my mom was on the carpet, fervently throwing presents to everyone. 

She handed me a lumpy, odd shaped one that was definitely not my Discman, to open first.

As I started peeling back paper, she was sitting upright, alert, face aglow. 

She seemed extra excited. Was I getting my own phone? A car three years early?? OMG! What could it be?! Her excitement made my mind wander to all sorts of amazing, unrealistic gifts.

When I finally unveiled the Most Exciting Present in the World, I was utterly confused. It was an action figure. 

“Mom, I think this is for Jarrett. This is an action figure-thing.”

I flung it over to my brother, who had opened all of his presents in under a minute, so the prospect of an extra gift was everything. 

My mom was not discouraged at all by my utter lack of interest in a boys’ toy. 

Now, wait a minute. Jarrett, that’s your sister’s. Hand it back.”

Christmas was officially over for my brother. 

When I had it back in hand, utterly confused, and quite embarrassed that my mom felt an action figure a proper gift for her 13-year-old daughter, my mom said, 

“But…lookie who it is. Who is it?”

It was then that I looked, for the first time, at the toy. 

She bought me a freaking Jeff Goldblum Independence Day action figure.


“But, isn’t he so cute? You can put him on your nightstand!”

And then she winked at me. 

Hubba, hubba!


Sit Sleeping at the Movies and Other Ridiculous Things  

Nope. I just have to lay down for 5 minutes to read, and I’m out.

I come from a long line of sit sleepers. What exactly are “sit sleepers”, you ask? Well, imma tell you. When you’re a sit sleeper, there’s a 98% chance that you will fall asleep within ten minutes of sitting down. The likelihood increases when you’re in a comfy armchair, it’s warm and cozy, and you’ve had any alcohol whatsoever. If you’re laying down, forget it-you’ve missed the entire episode of Orange is the New Black. 

I noticed I came from a family of sit sleepers early on with my grandmother. When I was kid, we got to spend the entire summer at the cabin on Coeur d’ Alene Lake in Northern Idaho. The best part of this wasn’t the long summer days filled with swimming, boating, and lounging in the sun. No, the best part was that I got to sleep in my grandma’s bed. It was the best sleep spot in the cabin. The other room was the “boys’ dorm”, filled with bunk beds and farts. It was gross. 

Without fail, the moment my grandma got settled in, covers just right, and with her current book, she was snoring. Except, it wasn’t just snoring. It was something entirely different. See, my beautiful grandmother took her teeth out at night. I still remember those weird, waxy looking chompers floating in a glass on her nightstand. Because her teeth weren’t in when she fell asleep, book opened on her face, it sounded like the subtle flapping of a flag in the wind. 

It was always really entertaining to bet on how many minutes, seconds it’d be until I’d hear the flapping. 

The entire time we had the light on to read, I’d slightly nudge her and she’d sputter awake and continue reading right where she left off. I remember really being concerned that she’d never get through her book. Somehow she did. The marvels of this world are endless. 

The best part of this whole nighttime ritual was that sometimes I’d tell her she was sleeping. Every time, she’d swear up and down that she hadn’t been sleeping. 

I’d say, “Grandma, your book was on your face!”

She’d say, “That’s how I read best.” 

Oh, how I miss the nights I’d nudge my grandmother to say, “Grandma! Your lips are flapping again!” 

Of course, my mother was gifted with sit sleeping. One of my fondest memories is of our nighttime reading. No matter how late, how tired, how stressed, my mom read to us from infacy. As we got older, my brother and I read to her. Each stage had a different level of narcolepsy-like sleeping spells.

Some nights, my mom would be in the middle of a sentence and suddenly, the book and her head would fall, and she would be quietly snoring. 


“I’m awake!”

Then, she’d pick up right where she left off. 

When we grew into voracious readers ourselves, we started to read to Mom. That was hilarious, because with no book to hold, and nothing to do other than lay and listen, she was usually snoring before we could even get through a page. 

If we ever have my mom watch Harry Potter, she’d likely say, “Why is this vaguely familiar to me?” 

We’d answer with, “Well, mom, we only read the entire series!” 

A fun little aside about my mom and falling asleep in inopportune situations:

Not only has my mom fallen asleep during reading and during she’s ever watched, she’s also been known to fall asleep while eating. Yup. You read that right. I wasn’t going to mention that it was likely due to some medication she was taking for her back, but either way, she fell asleep while eating a burrito. Except that’s only what she thought she was eating. She said she was eating her lunch and the damn tortilla would just not cut. She said she hacked and hacked away with her plastic fork, but no luck. Eventually, she decided to just gnaw at it with her teeth. At this point, she woke up/came to and realized she was eating her paper plate. I ask her to tell this story at least a couple times a year, because it’s just too good. 

I always thought falling asleep the second one sits was an old person thing. Well, at 33 years old, I can tell you it’s not!

Guys, I have become a sit sleeper something fierce! 

I’ve seen two movies over break, and during both of them I’ve fallen asleep. 

Like, fell asleep and woke myself up snoring. 

Yesterday, we went to see Rogue One at the luxury theater. I am fully convinced that those damn reclining seats have led to my demise. 

I was all settled in-candy opened and ready to be demolished, napkins draped across my chest like an adult baby, and my contraband drink nestled safely between my ass and the seat. 

I felt I had enough food to keep me awake. If I’m eating, I can’t be sleeping. It’s usually a foolproof plan.

Except, it wasn’t. 

I finished my theater food too soon. 

All of a sudden, I hear the crinkling of wrappers. It sounds like it is coming from inside my head. 

It stops. 

I go back to drooling all over my napkins as I try to keep at least one eye on the screen. 

Suddenly, the sound again. 

What the actual eff? 

I suddenly realize it’s the girl next to me. She’s been crumpling her candy wrappers like inside my ear. 

I’m aghast. I’m shocked. 

How could someone be so rude? 

Then. I realize.

She was crumpling her wrappers next to my head, because I was snoring. 

My head was leaned to her side, my mouth was gaping, and I was snoring in her face.

Who is this person I’ve become?

At this rate, I’ll be ten times as bad as both my grandmother and mother combined. 


This is too good!! 😂😂


Beware the Unpadded Sports Bra

*Disclaimer: this post is about bewbs. Most specifically nipples. Yup, I just came right out and said it. If you think you’re not ready for this level of honesty, maybe pass on this one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

I must be the only woman left on this planet who didn’t know that sports bras, minus added padding, is a recipe for disaster. In case you are also a nimrod and didn’t know this fascinating fact, don’t do it. That is, unless you are at home or for some strange reason you are missing your nipples.

Let me reiterate, don’t wear an un-padded sports bra in public. DON’T DO IT.

Learn from me, ladies.

Last week, it was necessary to wear a sports bra to work. We were having a fun-filled day of being outside. In the sun and 90-degree weather. All day. My most favorite part of this special day is being hot, sweaty, and stinky

So, I decided my only decent bra didn’t deserve swamp boob level grossness. Thus, my decision to wear my deceiving, bitch of a sports bra. 

So, there I was thinking I was being extra smart because I was going to be extra comfy all day. Also, my sports bras tend to reign in my back boobs a bit more than a regular bra, with a regular back strap. So, there’s that. 

After spending a good 20 minutes outside where it was still a little chilly in the morning air, after speaking to at least half of the staff and teachers at my school, after smiling like a fucking idiot at everyone I saw, I looked in the mirror. 

To my absolute horror, my headlights were standing at full mast, front and center. 


It looked like I had taped stale, hard mini marshmallows to the front of my bra. Why anyone would ever want to do that is beyond me, but that’s what it fucking looked like.

Why body? Why? 

How do you undo something that’s already been done? How do you make someone unsee something they’ve already seen? 

Um, you don’t, jackass. 

What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t run home, I’ll never get back in time. What am I gonna do???!
My Mod Mate suggested tissue, but I was not buying it. Under the thin material of my bastard bra, tissue would look lumpy. People would think I had unsuccessfully tried to pad my bra. Um, no. 

Then, I was struck with pure genius! I would cover my extra stubborn unmentionables with Post It notes! Pure genius, I tell you. Genius. 

The denser consistency of the paper would surely keep those bad boys in place. Also, the sticky strip would ensure the Post It stayed were it needed to. Win.

My Mod Mate was unconvinced, but I was undeterred. 

After successfully covering the last Captain Crunch Berry* (that kind of makes it sound like I have myriad berries. I assure you, I do not), I inspected my job in the mirror in the bathroom. 

I thought it looked fine. I really did. Because I had to show my Mod Mate what a fine job I did with the Post Its, I went next door to show her I was probably going to have to patent my idea. 

“Well, what do you think? You can’t see those two beacons of embarrassment anymore, right?”

Her response: 

“OMG. No. No. No. Girl, you don’t have two nips anymore! No.”

I answered: 

“Well, duh. That was that point. No more inappropriate nippage. No?”

She then said:


I was at a loss. What could possibly be wrong with my Post It note nipple covers? They were genius. 

She clarified: 

“Well, for starters, you now you have eight nipples. Is that what you were going for? If so? Well done.”

The four corners of the Post It notes made weird octi-nipples under my sports bra. So, instead of two innocent, albeit, unpredictable doo-das, I had something going on that was straight out of the personal fetish collection of some freak. 


The Post It notes came out, and tissue was put in their place, and all was well. 

I should probably listen to my friend and colleague a lot more. She’s pretty old and worldly like that. 

In ending, ladies, never fashion nipple covers using Post It notes or other office supplies. Further, if this is ever a necessity, it’s time to buy a padded sports bra (preferably not one from the $1 bin at Walgreens). 

This post is dedicated to my Mod Mate, the Oscar to my Felix, and the best damn colleague and friend I’ve ever been lucky enough to share a year-long “camping” adventure with. I’ll miss your random pop ins, how we could communicate with a single eyebrow raise, and the way you always “got” me. I love you. Enjoy your new school, ya bitch. 

*Oscar coined this phrase to name a friend’s nips, and it was pure hilarity. I had to sneak it in.


Lemme explain. OK, that’s exactly what it means. Yes. 

Well, I’ll just get to the point, then. *clears throat*

So, my Toilet Talk post was published on the hilarious site, HaHas for Hoohas! I’m super thrilled. It’s a right hooha over here. 

If you’re so inclined, check out my little ditty found HERE

Let me know what you think on the Hooha site, so people will think I’m cool and not just a freak who writes about poop. 

Love you all. 

Shopper Lottie-The Art of Public Pooping

Yes, I said “pooping”. I know you are intrigued. Check out my latest post over at Shopper Lottie. The site has recently been revamped and it is positively GORGEOUS and super user-friendly. Go check it out, and while you are there, find out what I mean by The Art of Public Pooping.

Let me know what you think over at Shopper Lottie. I love feedback. Give me ALL the feedback. If you have no feedback to give, let me know if you have anxiety around pooping in public, or if I am just neurotic (probably we already know that…)!

Have a great Tuesday. We are that much closer to Friday. CHEERS!


Why Wine is Not My Friend

The local art museum in my town is rad. Not only do they offer many lavish costume events (last year they had a steampunk event called Honest Abe’s Imagination Celebration where you got to view the Emancipation Proclamation. Badass), but they put on educator nights that are free, and if you attend all of the classes in a series, you get an inservice credit that goes toward your license renewal. 

Even better…

They serve free wine and delectable hors d’oeuvres. Tonight they had stuffed mushrooms, artichoke cups, spring rolls, and moist brownies, with chocolate chips, and they were a little under-baked, so they were gooey, and melty, and…

Right. I’m getting a little too excited. Moving on. 

Did I mention before that they serve wine? Free wine. 

I’m not sure if I’ve discussed my inability to be an adult after more than one glass of any kind of alcoholic beverage, or not. In case I haven’t touched on that wonderful aspect of myself, let me quickly explain. I’m a lightweight. I’m the cheapest date there ever was. Buy me a beer and I’m done. 

So, there I was, with my peers and colleagues, drinking one sensible glass of wine, and trying not to get caught going to the food table for the fourteenth time. It was grand. We got to drink wine and eat for free. Could there be anything better to a broke, stressed-out teacher? Nope. 

Before I knew it, it was time to enter the auditorium. The learning bit. I’d almost forgotten there was a purpose for my being there. 

I wasn’t even halfway through my glass of wine. 

One of my colleagues suggests I chug it. Only classy people chug their wine. 

I knew it was a bad idea. Anyone else after one glass of wine would be fine. Untouched. Not under the influence at all. Me? The direct opposite. 

In fact, I refuse to drive after even one drink, because I’m convinced I’m sloshed. It’s just safer for all involved if I drink on my couch, in my sweats.

As the presentation was starting, I had no other option. I glugged it down and we made our way to the auditorium. 

Upon entering, we see it’s the wrong side, as our school peeps are saving seats on the opposite side of the room. 

We turn around to exit, and that’s when it happened…
You know those moments that are so momentous, in a good or bad way, that time seems to stand still, and when you do move, it’s in super slow motion? 

Well, I had a lot of time to think on the way down. 

There was one more step. I didn’t step up. Shit. 

Is this really happening? Is this real life? 

Can I play it off? 

Can I save myself? 


Maybe my guardian angel will catch me and I won’t make contact with the shiny concrete floor.


Thar she blows! 

That’s all folks! 

No! This isn’t funny! Why the fuck me? 

I’m not the kind to fall, I’m more coordinated than that. 

I’m fat, but I’m light on my feet, like a dancer, but in a spastic way.  

Really?! Is this really happening. 



Not only did I fall in front of an auditorium full of people-fellow educators, when I made contact, the clipboard I was holding smacked the ground, making a God-awful “WHACK”. Just in case someone was not paying attention to the prelude to my epic crash, that damn deceptive clipboard made sure as hell they saw the grand finale. 

It’s possible that there was still, maybe, one person who didn’t witness my moves, but my colleague made sure it was a right spectacle with her, “OMG! YOU FELL!” (no fuck), and… her snorting. 

I am never taking advantage of free wine again. Ever. 

During the entire presentation, I was sweating profusely and praying that everyone thought it was my friend, who was wearing almost the identical sweater, who made the grand entrance, and not me. 


I’m sitting here, looking at the pictures my boyfriend just took of me doing two very basic yoga moves, and I’m contemplating two possible responses: 

1. Wash a red velvet cupcake down with a s’mores Frapp, while crying all over my floral-print Muu Muu.


2. Never eat again, subsisting on only air, while living the life of a hermit, relying on Amazon Prime to deliver anything I’ll ever need so as to never see the outside world until I don’t look like that in a picture. Ever. Again. 

I felt saying, “drive off a cliff” was too morbid. 

Actually, what I’m going to do is get a sugar-free Frapp and then scroll through Pinterest, looking for healthy food recipes, because THIS GIRL ain’t giving up. As mentioned in my previous post, I am beginning a journey to find my hidden, possibly natural, flexibility. I used to be lithe and fit (when I was 8). I think I can find that body again (I mean, I don’t want to look 8, just fit). I want to be able to contort myself in all sorts of amazing yoga positions. I think I can do this. No, I know I can do this. Furthermore, since posting the following super embarrassing photos of myself, and claiming I’ll be successful, it would be far too embarrassing to fail. I can’t fail. 

So, without further adieu, here are my level Negative 0 moves. Please don’t critique at this point. If I’m not doing something right, it’s because I can’t, or I simply don’t know how. I will learn. I will continue to post my progression via pictures and experiences as I learn more about yoga and my body. Wish me luck. 

Ugh, here we go. 


I thought I had a butt, but I guess I don’t. Also, I need to work on my concentration face, yikes.