T.P.

As a former teenage girl, I have some fond, vivid memories of T.P.-ing: late-night scheming, gleeful sneaking, surreptitious giggling, the adrenaline rush of getting it done without getting caught, the suspenseful wondering if you've been found out, half hoping yes, half hoping no.

Good times.

It's been years since I've been on the giving or receiving end of that brand of youthful enthusiasm. So, imagine my surprise when, last Tuesday morning, we woke up to some new landscaping features: See, I thought that t.p.-ing was no longer chic, since we're all being encouraged to reduce/reuse/recycle. How is 12 rolls of t.p. as yard decor reducing your planetary footprint? Not that I was upset. After all, Mark had noised it around on facebook that it was our 13th anniversary. It is [almost] an honor to be the target of such attention, I think. Since Mark is the Young Men's president, and I am the Seminary teacher, I suppose it should neither shock nor surprise me that we garnered the late-night attention of some, uhm, playful youth. Hyrum looked out the window and grunted. But the girls ran out and exclaimed that it looked like a jungle, or pretended it was "Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs" and giant pasta had fallen on our yard and was hanging in the trees.They helped me get it all cleaned up before the breeze shared it with our neighbors. It took me, all four of my daughters, their little friend across the street, and a leaf rake, but we got it all bagged up. And not a bit too soon, as it rained that evening.
For the record, I know who did it. I have my ways, you know.
Be forewarned. We buy t.p. in bulk. Never underestimate the ingenuity of an experienced mischief maker.