As far as T-P-ing acts go, this one was pretty pathetic. I didn’t even see it when I opened the front door this morning to fetch the Sunday paper. All I had on my mind at that early, pre-latte minute was when I was going to find time today to complete the NY Times crossword puzzle.
I greeted the mama dove, on her nest for the third round, and then opened the courtyard door. No paper. WTF? And then I saw a white mass in the driveway that looked like either a plastic grocery bag or a pile of paper towels. I walked toward it, and reminisced about the last time I approached a perplexing object near that point of our drive only to find my neighbor’s dead dog.
Thank God it wasn’t another murdered-by-coyote canine. It was only a mass of toilet paper clinging to an empty roll. Then I looked around and saw the stuff strewn from the mesquites and wrapped around the century plants and prickly pears.
I hope the pricks who did it got themselves a few thorns and pokes.
Meanwhile, we were only mildly amused. My girls, whom I sure were the targets of this age-old prank, thought it was “stupid.” They immediately sprung into action—without being asked—and cleaned it up before getting ready for church. And I located my Sunday paper at the end of the drive at the gate. Apparently our delivery person found the streamers too forbidding to venture through our circular drive.
Although I admit I took part in too many T-P-ing adventures to count, I’m not sure I get the point anymore. When I was in high school, we had a tradition of midnight toilet paper festivities each homecoming eve before the big game. We targeted the senior football players. I’m pretty sure the boys (and their families) considered it a badge of honor to be targeted.
But now it’s just a random act of juvenile and anonymous vandalism . . . and one more mess to clean up.