a Charmin story
I am not a house. I am not a tree. I’m not an oily butthole. But tonight, I was toilet papered.
There I was, in my continuing quest for physical perfection (Sidenote if I may: I bought a scale like I said I would and have lost ONE pound in two weeks; a far cry from Nicole Ritchie weight-loss proportions but, I’m big boned.) I was out for a nighttime dog jog in my parents’ very quiet, very safe suburban neighborhood with the faux creek and the horse trails. It’s become my favorite Saturday night ritual with the dog. He gets to pee on assorted shrubbery and take a crap on his favorite hill. I get to burn some calories and take care of shit with a plastic bag.
So, I’m rounding the second to last stretch of our route. It’s the street where I pick up the mail from the cluster box. For those of you who don’t know what a cluster box is, it’s basically the post office’s solution to lazy-ass, socially unstable mail carriers. Put a box that has different cubby holes, each with its own key and designate one cubby hole for each house. It’s kindergarten for middleclass homeowners. The mailman just stands behind it and sorts out the bills and Playboys at one easy location all while avoiding potential adultery with lonely housewives. Apartments have it and so do we.
The dog and I are both panting. I see an extra-long white SUV with black tinted windows. How very hip hop. They pass us going the same direction that we are going and turn the corner up the street. Then a few seconds later, they’re heading towards us. Must have been picking up a homey. They pass and then I hear them turn around behind me and come BACK again in our direction. My back was to them but I could see the headlights shining close and bright on the curb. They were going to stop. Naturally, they wanted to tell me how fine my ass looked in my sweatpants. Or perhaps they needed to ask for directions to the nearest supermodel party because you know, I look like the type of person who’d be up and up on that sort of information. I am one-pound lighter if I hadn’t already mentioned. But instead, as they came up from behind, someone pelted me with a roll of toilet paper. It hit me square in the back and I yelped from the surprise. They headed up the street and turned around and zoomed past me, flashing their high beams. I didn’t know how to react. I had put my key in the mailbox and was trying not to look up but I did and I saw two guys in the front seat. I watched them drive away, feeling pretty helpless and stupid for not trying to get their license plate number. I didn’t know what to do. I turned and saw the roll of toilet paper on the sidewalk. I ignored it, trying to process the whole incident and walked home. We’re low in the guest bathroom, I should have taken it.
When I got home, I immediately called the boyfriend who tried to soothe me by telling me they were just some stupid kids. I felt helpless. I felt offended and pissed off. I called the police station but there wasn’t much they could do because a) I didn’t have the license plate number, b) it was a low-level assault and c) porous paper fibers providing a spotty surface for fingerprints would make it difficult to get a clean one. They didn’t say this but, I watch CSI. I know the drill. The officer who took the call was quite nice about it all. She told me she’d take down the information and if the patrol cars noticed a vehicle lolling around and fitting my description, they could stop them and see if they had any extra rolls in the back. Do you see that? Those are my tax dollars at work. I’m sure no one will get pulled over tonight. Not for this anyway.
I called the boyfriend back who confessed that when he and his friends were of rowdy age, they had played pranks similar to what happened to me. They egged the houses. Left bags of their own creations (fecal) on doorsteps. And yes, they toilet papered yards. But, not people. I was on the phone live with the mind of a criminal. I immediately interrogated him.
“Did you ever do it to strangers?”
“No, just to people we didn’t like. Kids are dumb.”
“But, I wasn’t doing anything. I was just standing there.”
“They were just picking on you. I’m sorry, baby.”
“Yeah, they were just picking on me. And I just stood there. And there was nothing I could do about it.”
I began to cry. I cried to release my frustration with being completely ineffectual in my crime fighting ability. I cried because my brain was full of dead ends and they needed to be rinsed out. I should have picked up the roll so I could dab my eyes. I began to think about the boys who made me cry. Maybe their high beaming me was a “Hey, hope you’re not too upset. Thanks for providing us with a good laugh.” They represent a lot of people in life, whose actions may or may not be malicious, who sometimes have enormous power over me. I’m learning to take their power away. I thought about those boys and how they may grow up into great boyfriends like the one I have. Maybe they will feel bad for their misdeeds one day and teach their sons in a way their parents tried to teach them. Maybe when I go to work on Monday and Val, the bitchy breakfast queen is mean to me and I won’t let her get my goat. This fills me with hope. We’re still low in the guest bathroom but, I’m not low in spirit. Score one for positivity.
There I was, in my continuing quest for physical perfection (Sidenote if I may: I bought a scale like I said I would and have lost ONE pound in two weeks; a far cry from Nicole Ritchie weight-loss proportions but, I’m big boned.) I was out for a nighttime dog jog in my parents’ very quiet, very safe suburban neighborhood with the faux creek and the horse trails. It’s become my favorite Saturday night ritual with the dog. He gets to pee on assorted shrubbery and take a crap on his favorite hill. I get to burn some calories and take care of shit with a plastic bag.
So, I’m rounding the second to last stretch of our route. It’s the street where I pick up the mail from the cluster box. For those of you who don’t know what a cluster box is, it’s basically the post office’s solution to lazy-ass, socially unstable mail carriers. Put a box that has different cubby holes, each with its own key and designate one cubby hole for each house. It’s kindergarten for middleclass homeowners. The mailman just stands behind it and sorts out the bills and Playboys at one easy location all while avoiding potential adultery with lonely housewives. Apartments have it and so do we.
The dog and I are both panting. I see an extra-long white SUV with black tinted windows. How very hip hop. They pass us going the same direction that we are going and turn the corner up the street. Then a few seconds later, they’re heading towards us. Must have been picking up a homey. They pass and then I hear them turn around behind me and come BACK again in our direction. My back was to them but I could see the headlights shining close and bright on the curb. They were going to stop. Naturally, they wanted to tell me how fine my ass looked in my sweatpants. Or perhaps they needed to ask for directions to the nearest supermodel party because you know, I look like the type of person who’d be up and up on that sort of information. I am one-pound lighter if I hadn’t already mentioned. But instead, as they came up from behind, someone pelted me with a roll of toilet paper. It hit me square in the back and I yelped from the surprise. They headed up the street and turned around and zoomed past me, flashing their high beams. I didn’t know how to react. I had put my key in the mailbox and was trying not to look up but I did and I saw two guys in the front seat. I watched them drive away, feeling pretty helpless and stupid for not trying to get their license plate number. I didn’t know what to do. I turned and saw the roll of toilet paper on the sidewalk. I ignored it, trying to process the whole incident and walked home. We’re low in the guest bathroom, I should have taken it.
When I got home, I immediately called the boyfriend who tried to soothe me by telling me they were just some stupid kids. I felt helpless. I felt offended and pissed off. I called the police station but there wasn’t much they could do because a) I didn’t have the license plate number, b) it was a low-level assault and c) porous paper fibers providing a spotty surface for fingerprints would make it difficult to get a clean one. They didn’t say this but, I watch CSI. I know the drill. The officer who took the call was quite nice about it all. She told me she’d take down the information and if the patrol cars noticed a vehicle lolling around and fitting my description, they could stop them and see if they had any extra rolls in the back. Do you see that? Those are my tax dollars at work. I’m sure no one will get pulled over tonight. Not for this anyway.
I called the boyfriend back who confessed that when he and his friends were of rowdy age, they had played pranks similar to what happened to me. They egged the houses. Left bags of their own creations (fecal) on doorsteps. And yes, they toilet papered yards. But, not people. I was on the phone live with the mind of a criminal. I immediately interrogated him.
“Did you ever do it to strangers?”
“No, just to people we didn’t like. Kids are dumb.”
“But, I wasn’t doing anything. I was just standing there.”
“They were just picking on you. I’m sorry, baby.”
“Yeah, they were just picking on me. And I just stood there. And there was nothing I could do about it.”
I began to cry. I cried to release my frustration with being completely ineffectual in my crime fighting ability. I cried because my brain was full of dead ends and they needed to be rinsed out. I should have picked up the roll so I could dab my eyes. I began to think about the boys who made me cry. Maybe their high beaming me was a “Hey, hope you’re not too upset. Thanks for providing us with a good laugh.” They represent a lot of people in life, whose actions may or may not be malicious, who sometimes have enormous power over me. I’m learning to take their power away. I thought about those boys and how they may grow up into great boyfriends like the one I have. Maybe they will feel bad for their misdeeds one day and teach their sons in a way their parents tried to teach them. Maybe when I go to work on Monday and Val, the bitchy breakfast queen is mean to me and I won’t let her get my goat. This fills me with hope. We’re still low in the guest bathroom but, I’m not low in spirit. Score one for positivity.
posted by Katie at 1:23 AM
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