Now, as my trolls are quick to point out (squee! I have TROLLS!) and as I myself will happily acknowledge, I’m not a very smart person. Given the opportunity to save a couple of bucks using coupons, I’m quick to forget them at home. When the baby needs to nurse, I can never remember which boob was the last to be subjected to her tiny mouth. Hell, one time I even set my sheets on fire.
But since my husband is addicted to work-a-hol and isn’t home to supervise me ruining Jello (true story!), my stupidity doesn’t factor too much into the fact that I have not only earned the title of Queen of the Sausages, but also Keeper of the House. If it’s a choice between myself and Ben, well, I’m tall enough to work the gas pedals and have valid credit cards. I’ll suppose there’s no contest there.
So when it comes to doing Grown-Up Things, like scheduling carpet cleanings (why does that sound dirtier than it should?), cleaning up after the savages that I share a home with, and occasionally threatening to throw the dog into traffic, it’s all my realm. What is also my realm and my responsibility is making sure that I know what needs to be bought at the store.
Like toilet paper.
Between the scads of people that use my house to take dumps and the frequency with which I pee–damn you squirrel sized bladder!–this is something we often need. After being the one responsible for buying said ass-paper for upwards of 6 years now, you’d think that I’d have it down pat by now.
And you’d be wrong.
Because, you see, I cannot seem to properly purchase it. It’s like I have a brain blockage when it comes to buying TP. I suppose it’s because there are just too many choices and I don’t quite understand how each of the packages differs from the other. 1-ply? 2-ply? Quilted? WITH OR WITHOUT CREEPY BEARS?
I just don’t know!
When we first bought a condo out in Oak (no) Park, we went on a Campaign To Save Money. Against my better (read: snobbish) nature, we decided to start buying generic stuff. Imagine my surprise upon purchasing said generic toilet paper that using it was akin to wiping your ass with wax paper!
But since a Campaign To Save Cash also meant that we bought in bulk (despite the fact that aforementioned condo had absolutely nil closet space), we suffered through a seemingly endless supply of TP guaranteed to chap your ass and make it bleed.
This was years ago and I thought I had learned to allow my husband to pick out the ass-paper. When in need, The Daver was The Man With A Plan (or, at least, a better idea of how to avoid hemorrhoids).
Until the day before my induction with Amelia when The Daver and I decided to do our last bit of shopping for awhile. And while he perused such exciting aisles as The Kitty Litter Aisle, I noted that there was a most excellent sale on TP! It was my lucky day!
Without so much as consulting my husband before making this purchase, I quickly threw the ginormous pack into my cart and headed off to buy sheets.
I didn’t think about it again until I came home from the hospital with a gigantic episiotomy and a raging case of hemorrhoids and went to gingerly wipe myself. I nearly screamed as I realized that instead of TP, I’d bought SANDPAPER.
Once again, the TP Boner was all mine. And, of course, in bulk.
After enduring the excruciating bathroom! fun! time! for nearly two months (because I am not only stupid, but stubborn too.) I think that we may have finally gotten to the end of the rolls of wax paper cleverly disguised as toilet paper. And if not, the rest of the rolls will be placed squarely in the garbage can where they belong.
I’ve since been banned from even looking down the TP aisle. My ass and my husband both seem to think this is probably for the best.
So, Internet, dish. What is it that you can’t seem to get the hang of no matter how simple other people find it? Before you’re all like “damn, Aunt Becky, I have NOTHING I can’t seem to do!” because you’re too embarrassed to admit that you can’t pump gas or something, remember I just told you about my hemorrhoids. How more shameful can you get?