"My bathroom has been wiped out, " said the 21-year-old tree surgeon, who lives directly upstairs from the the couple.
The article is fascinating and I advise reading it in full, either in my bathroom or online at NewYorker.com.
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Before I knew how many calories were in it my body sure did, and it reported that information on my bathroom scale.
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Past brushing my teeth and taking my medicine, my bathroom time in the morning is limited to checking to see that my hair isn't too scary.
Scanning through my Bathroom dossier, it occurs to me that while I've incorporated hundreds of observations from the road into my books, I've used very few from this file.
WSJ: Jeffery Deaver on Bathrooms Around the World | Traveler's Tale
But, first, he was going to take a shower in my clean bathroom.
As I read it, the walls of my tiny bathroom felt like they were slowly but surely closing in on me.
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One night, I had grown so miserable about the bathroom that my fastidiousness overwhelmed my fury.
Once home, I taped copies of my new list on the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror, the dashboard of my car.
The receptionist showed me how to work the air conditioning, the television, the blinds, the Internet, but I only had one feature on my mind: the bathroom.
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Several stagers have toured my home, and some of their suggestions have been contradictory: One loved the flowered curtains in my kitchen and the giraffe-print shower curtain in the master bath but said my palm-tree bathroom wallpaper had to go.
As soon as my mother went into the bathroom I ran over to Frankie's house.
When I donned my costume in the office bathroom, I was already sweating.
That was the first entry in the Bathroom category of my research files, which at the time were recorded with pen and paper.
WSJ: Jeffery Deaver on Bathrooms Around the World | Traveler's Tale
The view from the attic bathroom always broke my heart a little, for it told the story of my family's own fall: our lost property and standing, our dwindling.
After like 2 hours, my grandmother came into the bathroom and proceeded to tell me this story about a prince covered in dirt that could only travel via soap bubbles and how he stayed in the bath too long and ended up washing away before he could get the princess.
After basking in the congratulations over my bravery, I went to bathroom to check out the results.
My streak of avoiding public school bathroom stalls came to a thunderous and emphatic end in seventh grade.
She handed me a consent form and advised me to go to the bathroom to change into my pajamas.
This morning I got on my hands to knees to scrub the bathroom floors.
But last night, while returning from a midnight bathroom visit, I stubbed my foot on a suitcase lying on the floor.
So I locked myself in the bathroom, and I put my music stand in the bathtub, took out the music, and I attempted the Mendelssohn concerto.
My pick: Room 609, which has a bathroom in one of the round towers, with a tub on a raised platform right by the window.
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So I wussed out and hired a woman named Tammy to be with my Dad at the funeral, mainly for the inevitable bathroom call.
But it floated elegantly about my ankles as I walked up the stairs to the attic bathroom.
He recommended we thump the taps, so while my husband and I went upstairs to try this, my three-year-old son ran for a pee into the marble-clad bathroom whose door opens directly onto the shower floor.
But every morning, I watched my father wake up with a smile, grab his walker, prop himself up against the bathroom sink, and slowly shave and button his uniform.
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