In Defense of One-Ply Toilet Paper

All my life I’ve been trained to favor the finer things: a brick of cheddar over those single-serve slices of American, Budweiser over generic beer, discount designer over department store brands, iceberg lettuce over…oh wait, that’s actually the bottom of the lettuce barrel, I suppose. Well, you get the idea.

So it comes as a shock that I have somehow recently cultivated a preference for one-ply toilet paper. Yes, after years of wiping my ass with the cushiony softness of two-ply, I’ve become a convert. This revelation was a result of having house guests who supplied the one-ply, subjecting my heretofore pampered derriere to discount tissue!

Obviously if one were to count the amount of little paper squares, a roll of one-ply will come out on top. But even if you wad up a whole handful, which might feel wasteful, you may be amazed by the superior outcome. Toilet tissue advertising mostly dances around the issue, though recently Quilted Northern has faced it head-on. Er, hands on? Do we really need someone to point out that the purpose of toilet paper — and the one thing we should require of it — is to keep our hands clean? Like, duh! But over the years, as the size of two-ply rolls has been shrinking, I’ve found that, alas, my high-priced paper wasn’t sufficiently accomplishing that very crucial job! So, faced with the cheap stuff right in my own bathroom, I wadded up in anticipation of wetness and was actually impressed! Even without using what felt like half the roll, the paper proved itself superior to my more-expensive brand.

The other surprise was that the lower-priced one-ply roll actually lasted longer. I’m only now in need of purchasing another four-pack and it’s been almost a month! Three cheers for one-ply!

F*ck Facebook

Today I reached a benchmark, of sorts. I just “connected” with my 1000th friend on Facebook. It’s sort of like that double rainbow: WHAT DOES IT MEAN? I’m not in tears, however. But what does it mean? Am I popular? Like, ya know, really popular? Do “they” like me. I mean really like me?

I recall back in the early days of social networking, when we were all on Friendster. (Yes, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and we weren’t all at the mercy of Mark Zuckerberg.) The press was amused by the online phenomenon and dubbed those with scads of contacts “hubs.” I had — and have — many spokes. (Though that’s probably something that can be said of most “burners,” since we all know hundreds of people scattered around the globe.) Hubs have a lot of friends, meet people easily and are skilled at networking, all very good things in this interconnected age.  It has not, however, helped me find a job, sublet my apartment or get me laid.

Yes, there are others who have far more “friends” than I do. But I’ve made a point of only “friending” people I’ve actually met. Still, it doesn’t mean much. It’s a random number in a meaningless medium. These “friends” are an odd bunch, I think to myself as their lives scroll by. People I’ve been close with for years are jumbled in with people I met yesterday; elementary school pals I haven’t seen in decades are little squares side by side with far-flung family members I never see at all. Their news is almost as meaningless as our friendships: links to YouTube or music videos; what they’re eating, buy, wearing; photos of offspring, pets, sunsets and drunken nights on the town.

Facebook also encourages strange, stalker-like behavior. I’ve been accused of “lurking” on someone’s profile when, in fact, my being aware of this person’s movements online was a result of Facebook’s incessant updating, informing me that “Sally just commented on Suzie’s post,” simply because I had commented on Suzie’s post earlier. Like it fucking matters.

Probably the worst thing about Facebook is now that everyone is on it (your mom! your boss! every ex you’ve ever dumped or been dumped by!) there’s no way to not be on it. There are people who only communicate via the site, having seemingly forgotten about plain ol’ email. Party invitations are now mass-Facebook’ed affairs that scroll by the same way peoples’ snacking habits and stupid jokes do: so quickly they’re barely digestible. Sigh.

What to do? Move to a cabin in the mountains and unplug completely? Alas, as appealing as that sounds, no… Instead, I plod away, posting and updating, Tweeting and blogging, “following” and “friending,” shoving the virtual shit against the tsunami-like tide of zeros and ones and who-the-hell-are you?s. Now, won’t you “like” my post? Reddit my article? Up-arrow my very existence, so I can truly feel validated? Er, popular? Ooh! Make that 1,001!