Incessant colds and runny noses over the past week have caused an unforeseen depletion of our household toilet paper supply. This, unfortunately, required a premature dip into the emergency “back-up reserves,” which I affectionately refer to as “The John Wayne Collection.” Every Southern family has a “John Wayne Collection”…a stashed trove of off-brand dollar store TP that remains squirreled away for camping trips, tailgating, paint stripping, in-laws, or dire(reaha) emergencies.
As I ordered our daughter to the bowels (see what I did there) of our bathroom closet for a roll of the rarely-utilized “John Wayne 1-ply,” my lovely wife glanced over with that look normally reserved for accidentally swallowing a yellow jacket on a bicycle ride…
“The whaaaa?”
Much to my astonishment, Elizabeth informed me that she had never, in her 29(ish) years, heard the term “John Wayne Toilet Paper.” (My turn for the swallowed-a-yellow-jacket face)
I was as aghast as you. Appalled, if we’re being perfectly honest. I knew this woman I have loved and adored for over 20 years had been sheltered as a child…but I had no idea she had been raised by the Vanderbilts.
After lifting my jaw from the proverbial bathroom floor, I calmly explained that it was so aptly named because “it’s rough, it’s tough, and it don’t take no $#!+ off nobody.” While this epiphany was not outlandish enough to warrant any sort of marital regret, two important questions continued to swirl-the-porcelain of my head:
First and foremost, how is it possible that something as egregious as this managed to slip through my rigorous vetting process over 20 years ago? I mean, I know it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure the three primary questions I asked every girl on a first date were: A) ‘Have you watched Smokey & the Bandit?’ B) ‘Do you like chicken wings?’ and C) “Are you intimately familiar with the primordial necessity of every Southern upper-lower-middle class family that is commonly referred to as “John Wayne toilet paper?'”
(I found this helped to weed out the spoiled lasses who were only looking for a life of leisure and soliloquy at my expense….thus saving them years of disappointment down the road.)
Apparently, so smitten was I with Elizabeth’s beauty and charm, I inadvertently skipped question “C” and went straight to question D) ‘Do you currently have any warrants, arrests or restraining orders pending in a court of law?’ (Long story, but necessary question. Perhaps another day.)
But secondly, how in the wide-world of runny snouts did I luck up and marry such a woman of obvious privilege and prestige without plunking down a dowry equal to a used 1987 Ford Taurus?
One who has never been subjected to the shear cleaning power afforded by a 120-grit sheet of John Wayne industrial grade single-ply balled up like a Danny Duzit scouring pad? Hey, I know I out-kicked my coverage, but I had no idea I married into some sort of toilet paper royalty who reigned from the golden thrones (get it?) of Biltmore Estate. I can only assume that she married me out of pity. It happens. Women love a project…especially one that that never gets finished (and I’m forever in the bathroom). Today’s revelation only confirms what I’ve long suspected: She has an ill-conceived notion
that one day, this poor, overweight, balding, noxious frog will become a prince. Obviously, I haven’t…and likely never will. So, ribbit.
Bless the poor girl’s heart…it’s a hard reality to come to grips with after 18 years of marriage, but here’s hoping she can somehow hold back those tears of disgust, despair and disappointment…
…at least until we’ve restocked with her beloved Charmin Ultra Soft.
~dso