I discovered why there is a toilet paper shortage. Everybody wants to blame the problem on this thing called a pandemic. That never made sense to me, still doesn’t.
It seems more sensible that consumers would be far more concerned with eating than wiping when it comes to fear of shortages. Anyway, I experienced the real reason for the run on TP.
Gary and I woke Sunday to find the entire front of our house had been not burglarized but toiletrized. Not kidding.
Streams of light two-ply paper floated from our second-floor front porch and cascaded in ribbon fashion down and around tree branches to our new Knock Out rose bushes. Think long wide white ribbons—lots of them.
The precious paper encircled two custom-made signs with gold lettering planted in the yard on each side of the front walk. The décor continued up the front porch with the banisters and railings wrapped in delicate tissue that is worth more than gold.
A gentle breeze billowed the white waves in languid ups and downs. Three ginormous balloons drifted back and forth, their strings wrapped in toilet paper and attached to railings on each side of the lower porch.
Oh, and a brown paper gift bag hung from the front door handle, toilet paper strands peeking out in tissue paper fashion.
Gary reached for the bag, and I said, “Don’t put your hand in there! It looks like it’s full of toilet paper!”
And it was—a bag of toilet paper, fluffy TP and nothing else. Which we would have known had we read the signs and noted the balloons.
But when one learns on what had been a lazy Sunday morning that she has been toiletrized, her body freezes; her mind races.
She asks herself, “Self, what have you done?” and “Whose feelings did you hurt?” and “Why would someone toiletrize you?”
At first glance, she sees only waves and waves of white toilet paper and thinks thoughts that would never have crossed her mind three months ago.
“Will the neighbors report us? Will the police come? Will we get a ticket for toilet paper waste?”
Never did it occur to me that I should call the police for our protection. I should have considered only one true concern: “Will people raid our house to get this toilet paper?”
But they did not. Our neighbors must have been well-stocked—well-stocked and laughing at us from behind their window panes.
Closer inspection revealed that I had not traumatized anyone. I say “I” because Gary never, as in ever, suffers from “insert foot in mouth” disease.
But the decorations were for us, not against us. A huge avocado balloon read “Holy Guacamole,” a reference to the two gold-numbered balloons—one a massive “4” and the other an “0.” Four and zero as in “40,” which a gold-lettered sign explained: “Happy 40th Anniversary.”
Keep in mind that I was a child bride.
The other sign read “Tyrone and Beanie forever.” Tyrone and Beanie are names from our high school days. I told you I was a child bride. Only our children—the “toiletrizers”—are privy to that information, until now, that is.
Gary and I were awake until after midnight Saturday night watching a movie on our back porch. How we did not hear our children and their co-conspirators as they went about their toilet paper tossing remains a mystery.
This is all to say that the shortage of toilet paper should not be a COVID-related statistic. That song and dance is a cover-up for TP hoarders. All this time they’ve been stocking up for their shenanigans. Holy Guacamole indeed.
writer, blogger, columnist