Flush with pride

This isn't an actual picture of my house. But it might as well be.

When I woke up this morning, the trees on my front lawn and the street-side parkway were green, and the toilet paper was in full bloom.

For the second time in three weeks, one of my son's or daughter's friends thought highly enough of them to get together with even more of their friends, find someone with a driver's license and drive over here at 2:30 in the morning to TP our house.

I know it was 2:30 because before they sped off, one of the little f..darlings came up and rang our doorbell a half dozen times.

Is there a higher compliment? Apparently not.

I keep being told by my wife, and neighbors who don't have to clean up the aftermath, that it's a sign of fun and affection. They don't do it to houses of kids they don't know or like. That wasn't the case when I was growing up on the mean streets of west L.A. (north of Wilshire).

Where I lived, when a house got TP'd it was because people didn't like you. It was a "let's get 'em!" kind of thing.

A junior high lynch mob with Charmin instead of torches.

I keep getting told it'll probably happen again, usually runs through the school football season and I should just lighten up about it and ride it out.

I'll try to remember that in the coming Friday and Saturday nights, when I'm sleeping on the living room couch with baseball bat in hand, German Shepherd at my side, and the garden hose unkinked and set on jet spray just outside the door.