Sometimes the real is surreal. 

Ever since returning from the Baltic, I've been somewhat challenged in adjusting to the California time zone.  The prior two days, I was in bed before 10 and up at 6.  So last night's record of staying up until 11:00 p.m. boded well. 

Not so much.  I awoke at 5:00 a.m.  Completely.  Awake.

So I stumbled to the loft to read my book (the excellent Careless in Red by Elizabeth George).  After a few moments of literary distraction, I became aware of the growing heat.  I shuffled over to open the window to the fog-strewn morning and was greeted by...

Toilet Paper.

Now, I do remember a time when being on the receiving end of a few well-flung rolls of toilet paper was a badge of honor.  My 16th birthday was commemorated by friends with a particular sense of style--using rolls of the pink and green toilet paper that was available in the late 70's.  (Remember matching your toilet paper to your bathroom?)

However.  I am now, as we've established, a woman of a certain age.  And while Dan and I are entirely capable of childlike wonder (and even a childish moment or two), we are definitely past the age where our friends come over in the middle of the night to display their affection with tissue confections.

This had to be a case of mistaken identity.

But mistake or not, the toilet paper was in our trees, on our flowers, strewn about our driveway.  And so it was that I was out, cleaning up toilet paper, feminine hygeine products, and strawberry bath foam from my front yard at the crack of dawn.

Somewhere in our town today, there's group of giggly girls who are going to be disappointed and confused when the young man (or so I assume) who was the target of their mischief seems more obtuse than usual.  I can see them slowly figuring out that maybe, just maybe, they hit the wrong house.

Will they wander by to see whom their real victims were?  If so, should I be ready with a super-soaker or let bygones be bygones?

After all, the strawberry bath foam gave me an excuse to hose down my driveway (something verboten in drought-prone California).  And although I spent the early morning in a state of amused annoyance, it wasn't entirely real since I wasn't entirely awake.  Who can begrudge whimsy when it whisks one back to youth, to a time when what was important was that one's house was festooned with pink and green streamers and, because of that toilet paper, all was right with the world?

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