I was the victim of a heinous crime in my own home, says JACI STEPHEN

No no no no! You just don’t.

It’s shocking. Delinquent. Nothing less than domestic terrorism.

Last week I was the victim of a heinous crime in my own home. A vile act committed at the hands of one of my close friends that was so shocking that I am still reeling from the shock.

But before I reveal the crime itself, let me set the scene.

I was enjoying drinks in my apartment with two friends that I adore. They are very travelers, interesting, fun and great company. Every time we see each other we chat for hours and time flies by.

They have been to my apartment many times, all without incident. They are perfect guests. They bring wine, kick off their shoes at the door, keep their feet off the coffee table, and are great people.

How, therefore, did I never realize that they could be capable of such a horrible act?

Maybe I just hadn’t noticed. Or maybe I chalked it up to my own mistake. Or an evil bogeyman who sneaks in overnight to torment my perfectly organized existence.

That’s right: Perfectly organized. I have moderate OCD that manifests itself in particular ways. I have to have my trim and cushions at right 90 degree angles, despite the concerted efforts of my cleaners to move everything to 45 degrees.

My herbs and spices are in alphabetical order in my cabinets. Each jar and bottle has the label facing out.

And then, of course, there’s my toilet paper, which must be placed flap-back at all times. Without exceptions. No arguments. It is not negotiable.

It’s just aesthetically more pleasing. I know I am in the minority, especially when it comes to hotels. Not only do they insist on putting the flap in the front, they have to spend precious minutes when they could be folding my clothes, making a piece of art with that stupid little triangle on the front.

Does anyone really notice? Do you sit on the toilet and think, ‘No, I’m not going to do the rest of my business yet because I just want to sit and admire that perfect little triangle?’

Toilet paper placement has been a heated debate between etiquette experts and bathroom goers for eons and you may have your own very different opinion on the matter. You can even make silent judgments when you walk into someone else’s house and find that they take the opposite approach.

Or maybe you’ve never thought about it and don’t care which way the toilet paper is, as long as it’s available when you’re done.

Either way, I have no doubt you’ll totally agree with me on one aspect of toilet paper etiquette: changing the roll at someone else’s home is absolutely unacceptable. Criminal even. Nothing less than domestic terrorism.

And yet, that is exactly what happened to me last week when I hosted a group of friends in my home, my personal space, my most intimate sanctuary, only to have it violated with this most shocking act.

So, back to the crime scene. I spent a lovely afternoon catching up with my ‘perfect’ guests, my friends Steve and Rebecca, and invited them over to my apartment for another drink.

We were all enjoying a nice evening… until I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

That’s when I see it. He hits me not so much like an elephant in the room but like a real herd.

The flap. My flap. My normally perfect fold-out flap against the wall is not there. Missing. The impact stops me halfway.

My hand is pounding on the wall, trying to locate the toilet paper that has been in the exact same spot my entire life. But nothing. He went away. The toilet paper fairy has taken my stash.

Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. Looking at my face, by God, it’s practically on my lap, there’s a front flap.

NO NO NO NO NO!

I finish my business and flip the toilet paper the right way. My correct way. Not the damn Marriott or Hilton way, but my way. Because I can. As I said: my house, my rules.

But I can’t let it go. The culprit must be found. So, I remove the scroll, return to the room and, holding said work of art, now ruined, I might add, aloud, I began my investigation.

“Okay,” I announce. ‘Who was?’

There is no deduction like Colombo’s because it can only be one of two people. Steve used the bathroom once, as did Rebecca, actions he would never have recorded prior to this transgression, I might add.

I didn’t even have to gather evidence because Rebecca says, without a hint of guilt in her voice, ‘It was me. It’s something I have to do.

I am in shock.

I have another friend who does the same. He once told me that no matter where he goes, if the flap is on the back, he has to change it, regardless of whether it’s in a private residence.

Now, let’s get to the real issue here. Aside from the front or back flap question, it’s a case of what you can or can’t do in someone else’s house.

If your hobby is the front flap you should check your fetish, yes it’s a weird form of fetish in my book, until you get home where you can go crazy making origami sculptures out of toilet paper as far as I’m concerned.

But when you’re in my house, you have to live near my lapels, strange as you may find them.

On the grand scale of things, it’s a minor infraction (‘No one died, no one got pregnant’ is my motto for getting through most things in life), but it’s a violation nonetheless.

Where could it end?

Is Flapgate just the beginning of an escalating life of domestic crime for Rebecca? Will she go on to turn the faces of my jars toward the wall? Will I open my cupboard to find oregano taking pride of place before basil?

The repercussions do not bear thinking.

What to do then?

Next time Rebecca visits, I could hide all the toilet paper rolls away and put a box of tissues in the bathroom, but I still like that the protruding tissue flap is floating in the back.

I could remove the toilet paper rolls entirely. You could put a “bathroom out of order” sign on the door. I could find new friends who don’t invade my personal space.

It’s hard.

House guests, you have been warned. I’m the toilet paper police.

Fear. Be very afraid. I’ll get you out of trouble.