Bruce Cameron

Jun 25, 20140

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2009.

The other day, I did something most men would consider impossible: I changed the toilet paper roll.

I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking I probably put a fresh roll near the holder, maybe even on the holder, but that there’s no way I went against the instructions hard-wired into my XY chromosomes and actually removed the old tube and put in a new one, not unless someone’s invented a new electronic digital HD “Ultra Maximum” toilet-paper-changing device that I was eager to try out.

So let me be delicately diplomatic: You’re completely, embarrassingly wrong. In the first place, there is no Ultra Maximum toilet-paper-changing device, though if there were I’d want the turbo-charged model. In the second place, I can prove my claim of toilet paper mastery because, after heroically swapping out the exhausted roll for a new one, I did what any male would do in my position: I called a press conference.

Well, perhaps “press conference” is a bit overstated — I simply told every female I know about my astounding feat. I even called my older daughter at work to ask her if she could come over and take pictures and post them on the Internet.

“This is something women do every day,” she complained, “but you make it sound like you saved the planet.”

“What would really be cool is if the Ultra Maximum toilet-paper changer came with a remote control,” I agreed.

“You’re also demonstrating typical male listening skills,” she said.

“Maybe it could run on jet fuel,” I mused. “Or gunpowder.”

When she asked me whether this meant I was going to “learn” how to put the toilet seat down, I told her I had to call someone else on the phone tree.

Now, I’m still a man of my gender, so I didn’t rush to call my male friends, but somehow word got out. My buddy Tom was pretty blunt about it.

“Is it true?” he demanded.

“Well, yeah,” I admitted uncomfortably, searching my mind for manly things to say about it. “But, hey, there was, you know, danger. Collateral damage. Pain.”

“I don’t get it,” he responded. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“We do, it’s just ... See, I have this new Ultra-Max gunpowder remote-controlled flame-throwing toilet-paper changer that I’m testing for, you know, Special Forces.”

“Nice try, estrogen boy,” he said. “Don’t even think about coming over for Monday Night Football, though we still want you to buy the beer.” He hung up.

I was reeling, heartsick over what Tom had said. How could it possibly be my turn to buy the beer again already? And if I was barred from going to his house on Monday, where oh where was I going to find another group of guys to watch the game with except every sports bar in America?

I wondered if it would help if I took a chainsaw and raked it up and down the walls in the bathroom, made it look like the whole thing had taken a lot of sweat and power tools. And that’s when my son saved me, phoning me from college, which he does on a weekly basis because he likes to ask my advice on how much money I can send him.

“Well, did you put it paper-over or paper-under?” he asked when I explained my dilemma. “You have to put it in paper-over, or it ruins the bathroom.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah,” he assured me. “That’s what my girlfriend tells me. It’s hugely important that it be paper-over. Either that or paper-under, I don’t really know which. The point is, if you didn’t do it the way it is supposed to be, women will get mad.”

I phoned my older daughter to ask her about this. “Paper-under,” she responded promptly. “Otherwise, the cats unroll it.”

“Paper-over,” my other daughter advised. “I hate it when people do paper-under.”

Perfect! Maybe I did change the toilet paper roll, but I did it wrong. I’d dodged a bullet that would cause pain and collateral damage! The guys would have to let me back in!

Which they did, welcoming me with open arms.

After all, I bought the beer.

(Bruce Cameron has a website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com.)