On A Roll

Trust me when I say that I don't like to do this. It's never a good idea to discuss your weird dreams in public. There are already enough people out there that think I should be committed. But this dream was different. I was on trial - charged with Toilet Paper Negligence.

I fully expect to get hammered for revealing all this. And in part, that's because it has all the dangerously sexist connotations associated with such important male/female debates as whether the toilet seat should be left up or down by men.

When I stop to think about it, I'm sure my weird dream has something to do with my unspoken duty to make sure that we have a sufficient supply of toilet paper on hand at all times. In a house full of women, it's not a part-time job, it's a career position.

Since I'm clearly not the biggest consumer of toilet paper, I have no idea how I actually came to hold such an important position in the toilet paper hierarchy. As a bachelor, it never crossed my mind that one day I would be expected to buy toilet paper by the ton as opposed to the roll.

But what I learned after marriage and fielding three daughters was that with toilet paper, there is no in-between: you are either drowning in rolls of paper or there is none at all. And the scary part is the fact that it only takes 24 hours to get from one to the other.

By my calculations, we're dragging at least an acre of processed trees through our house each week. And that doesn't include facial tissue. I think it would be cheaper for us to open our own paper mill.

Nonetheless, I've tried to do a good job. I even took the Toilet Paper Sensitivity Class offered by the Continuing Adult Male Reeducation Classes at the local women's college. And that's probably why the dream concerns me.

In my dream, it was a regular day around the house - I was mopping the floor, washing a load of clothes, and had just started dinner when I heard a scream. Based on the tone and tenor of the scream, I immediately stopped in my tracks, took off my apron, and bolted for the car.

But before I could get to the store, I found myself before a pitiless judge. "Mr. Sartain, you are charged with Sec. 334 of the Toilet Paper Adequacy Act. How do you plead?"

"Your honor, I'm innocent. I just stocked up on toilet paper an hour earlier. I don't have any idea what could have happened."

That's when the prosecutor piped in. "Judge, he did have an adequate supply on the premises, but it was not properly distributed. We have tapes of Mr. Sartain watching the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series when he should have been stocking the bathrooms."

"But I only got to see the last out," I quickly interjected.

The judge wasn't impressed and wrinkled up her nose. "And the quality of the paper?"

"Cheap, scratchy stuff," the prosecutor hissed.

When the judge turned to the jury, I noticed for the first time that there were no men on the jury. I was doomed and I knew it. But just before sentence was imposed, I awoke with a start, sweaty and breathing heavily. I shook my head a time or two trying to distinguish the dream from reality, but it was useless.

It was the middle of the night and I could hardly see what I was doing, but it only took a minute or two to check all the bathrooms for toilet paper. And while I was at it, I made sure all the toilet seats were in the down position.

As far as I know, the jury's still out.