Hissy Fit

On a Roll- and Feeling Empty

Why is it that every time I go to the bathroom the toilet paper roll is empty? Is it just me, or do you find yourself in the same situation? Oddly enough, it doesn't matter what bathroom I use; it can be mine, the children's, heck, even at the office, the roll is always empty.

I know it's not that big of deal to change the roll, unless you keep the TP in another room and find yourself in a rather difficult predicament, but it is one of those tasks that I dread doing, especially if it is a tight, spring-loaded roll holder. Good Lord, I can fight with that thing all day. I mean, I put one end in, and right when I get the opposite end close to snapping in, the other pops out. This little game can go on right until you put the TP roll on the back of the toilet and call a truce.

Again, maybe it's just me, but my family can be nowhere to be found, but when I go to the bathroom, they miraculously show up. I may think I'm sneaking in, but as soon as my zipper is down, someone or one of the dogs comes scratching at the bathroom door in need of something. It's like my pants send out radar signals that attract the needy when they get below a certain point. Right when I open my brand new Southern Living, I hear a voice on the other side of the door, "Mama, I'm hungry and thirsty." Like while I'm in there, I'm going to produce a bag of potato chips and a root beer.

Here's something else I can't figure out. I go to the bathroom, and my husband usually shows up at the door, too, and asks, "What are you doing?"

Really? I mean it's not like I have a Pac-man machine in there. There just aren't that many options? So my response is usually something like, is that a rhetorical question, which sufficiently stumps him for a while.
But here's a little secret to keep them away. If you happen to be out of TP, as usual, but don't notice it until it's too late, I can assure you that this is the time you will not be interrupted. That's right; no one will show up at the door. It's like the pant's radar warned them. I can scream my fool head off for 10 minutes and no one hears me.not even the dog.
So, knowing for sure they must be outside, I decide to just get up, scoot out to the cabinet under the dressing room sink, and quickly grab a new roll. As soon as I open the door, there's my little angel, "Were you screaming for something, Mama?"


"Yes Dear, could you please hand me a roll of toilet paper, Sweetheart? Just leave it at the door.thanks, Darling. Go on out and play now.thanks."

Confident now that the coast is clear, I open the door, grab the TP, shut the door, slip it over the roll-holder, put it in the left hole, right hole, left hole, right hole, pick it up off the floor and reach for the spring that has now rolled behind the toilet, put the holder back together and finally get the roll in place with not one Southern Living article or recipe even remotely scanned.

When I get back to the kitchen, I realize, that in my solid state of frustration, I forgot to wash my hands. So, I wash them and reach for a paper towel. Sigh.there it is, in all its bare brown nakedness-the empty paper towel roll. I shake my head, involuntarily roll my eyes, pull out a dishtowel to dry my hands, and decide that all this is just a bunch of rigamarole. 

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