I admit it.
We’d become spoiled – entitled.
We pushed memories of the COVID pandemic behind us. We believed that things had returned to normal, toilet paper once again a commodity we took for granted.
Recently, that belief was put to the test and quickly shredded.
At first, I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. After all, suffering in silence is the hallmark of a long marriage.
Finally, one morning, I emerged from the bathroom and said, “What is the deal with our toilet paper!?”
I dangled a jagged example.
“I know!” my husband said. “The whole roll is unperforated!”
It wasn’t just that one. We’d gone through an entire package from a case of Kirkland toilet tissue, ripping off squares like savages.
Obviously, this batch had escaped Costco’s crack inspectors at the TP factory.
Risking becoming the butt of people’s jokes online, I posted our dilemma, requesting the obligatory “thoughts and prayers during this difficult time.”
That’s when I discovered we weren’t alone. Other friends had also purchased bum packages of toilet tissue.
“Take it back,” some suggested. “Costco is good about returns.”
At this point, we’d already opened our second package. I hoped we’d reached the end of the tissue issue, but each new roll tore our dreams along unperforated edges.
Our parents didn’t raise quitters. Besides, who wants to return a partially used case of toilet paper? We just decided to roll with it.
Another friend suggested that we keep scissors next to the toilet and cut squares as needed. That seemed like an ER trip waiting to happen.
I’ve avoided sharp scissors since the “Bloody Bee Gees Incident” of 2021.
My son had given me the “Bee Gees Greatest Hits” CD for Christmas. I got a bit frustrated while trying to remove the plastic shroud.
Blood was spilled.
It was just my own, and an entire box of Band Aids later, I was fine. No scarring, unless you include the psychological wounds Derek incurred when he found a trail of bloody paper towels and bandages throughout the house.
Another week passed. No wonder so many people bought bidets during the pandemic. Our memories of how toilet paper was supposed to work were slowly being wiped away.
If Sears still published catalogs, I might have been tempted. Derek pointed to our bag full of newspapers ready for the recycling bin, but the answer to our struggle wasn’t that black and white.
By the time I reached the final package, I considered the question of whether to TP or not to TP?
After all, an unopened case offered the bright white hope of perforated squares. Why not have a little fun with the rest of the bad batch? A friend offered to join me on a nighttime T.P rampage through the neighborhood.
Then I remembered an incident from my teenage years when our house was targeted by toilet paper bandits.
My dad made me go out and wind up the white streamers adorning our tree.
“It’s no Montgomery Ward’s catalog, but it’s perfectly usable,” he’d said.
The lessons he’d learned growing up in Arkansas during the Great Depression had stuck with him – and on me.
So, Derek and I used all 24 rolls for their intended purpose, and at last, with great trepidation, I opened the new case.
“If this one is defective, I’m taking it back,” I warned.
Carefully, I unwound a few squares and tugged.
It separated neatly.
Flushed with happiness, I shouted, “It’s perfectly perforated!”
Bottom line? Our ordeal offered us a daily reminder to count our blessings one square at a time.
Cindy Hval 