Who SH** In The Bathtub?

These are not words anyone wants to hear when they first wake up.

Especially not the morning after one of those nights.

Now, I should take a moment to say that my blog seems to have lost it sense of humor lately, and inspired (once again) by Imaginary Friend Sherri, I have decided to relate the story of how I came to be asked "Why is there poop in the tub?" Or, words to that effect.

Dramatis Personae:
Kurt, a sailor, only recently arrived in California
Bear, a sailor, former shipmate and lifelong best friend of Kurt
Kim, then-girlfriend and current ex-wife of Kurt

The story begins when Bear arrives unexpectedly at our door. He arrives bearing several large bottles of rum, and though it still early afternoon, the drinking commences almost immediately. I hadn't seen Bear in months, he'd recently survived a motorcycle accident that left him with 65 stitches in his face, and both of us were on leave. We figured we were safe to party.

Little did we know.

When Kim got home from work that afternoon, she joined the celebration, and along with us, consumed a startling amount of alcohol and a dazzling array of unhealthy foods.

Kim now owns a women's fitness center (I won't go into any details at the moment, except to say that I happily refer to the place as a "sweat shop", as in "My ex-wife owns a sweat shop"), and presumably, she eats healthier fare these days...but back then, the woman loved her some Mallomars.

If you are not familiar with mallomars, allow me to quote Wikipedia on the subject. "Mallomars are a cookie in the marshmallow sandwich genre, produced seasonally at Nabisco. A circle of Graham cracker is covered with a puff of extruded marshmallow, then enrobed (not dipped) in a hard dark chocolate shell."

You see, mallomars are a rare treat.

But, I digress. (Me? No!)

After a long while, during which the chief activities were drinking, laughing, and more drinking, Kim announced that she was going to bed. As I recall, it was, in fact, dark, but not so late that the neighbors had cause for complaint. Bear and I found this amusing, and worthy of another good laugh and another round of drinks.

Now, I seem to hold my liquor pretty well. It's true, and I am much more likely to argue that point when I have had copious amounts to drink. Okay, maybe it's not entirely true, but I do tend to be the one pouring friends into bed in the last few moments before they pass out.

That's exactly what happened with Bear. He stood up and slurrily announced that he was headed for bed, and began weaving his way towards the stairs. I caught up with him, and together, we staggered up the steps to the apartment Kim and I shared. I deposited Bear on the couch, where, I swear, he began snoring before he was fully horizontal.

I remember visiting the bathroom then...and I am sure I would have noticed if someone had used the tub for other than its intended purpose. The bathroom was very small, and the toilet was right beside the tub.

When I tottered through the open door into the bedroom, I noticed that Kim had simply peeled off all her clothes and was lying naked, on her stomach, with the bedsheets around her ankles. I stripped as well, and slid in beside her, pulling the sheet and comforter up over us both, and passed out.

There is no way to adequately describe the sound I awoke to. Screeching indignance? Shrieking incredulity? The first time I heard it, I simply recoiled under the covers. It repeated, and then I realized there were words. Words I will never forget:

"WHO SHIT IN THE BATHTUB?"

My future bride stood in the doorway to our bedroom, hands on her hips, glaring alternately at me and into the livingroom, where presumably, Bear was as stunned and unresponsive as I.

"Well, I'm not cleaning it up," she said. "It's disgusting. Whoever did it can clean it up." She then stomped off to the kitchen, which was not nearly distant enough for me and my throbbing head to avoid feeling every plate she clattered and every pan she banged while making breakfast.

The meaning of the words slowly sank in. Someone had shit in the bathtub? Someone had shit in the bathtub! The staggering import of it washed over me, and hangover nearly forgotten, I lurched and teetered out of bed. There was a mystery to be solved! (Where are you, Scoob?)

I made a bleary-eyed examination of the crime scene, and discovered that yes, there appeared to be a dark brown, lumpy, semi-solid substance in the bottom of our other-wise pristine white porcelain tub. I knelt, and careful not to bend over too far, I cleaned the mess out of the tub.

Afterwards, I wobbled into the kitchen and sat down at the dining table, pushing aside a nearly empty package of mallomars. There was coffee, but it was several miles across the kitchen to the pot, and I would need to reach up to get a cup out of the cupboard. Coffee could wait.

Kim was on her soap box. She lectured me until Bear came in, then lectured us both about the evils of drinking. Though she herself had consumed enough to pass out hours before either of us had made our way upstairs, she saw this as evidence of her own good sense and proof positive that Bear and I were little more than Neanderthals.

Her lecture went on all day. She was like a terrier with a rat. The three of us went out for the day, and she took every opportunity to remind us that someone had shit in the tub and she knew it was one of us. She told the story to complete strangers, who were undoubtedly horrified, if not seriously traumatized by the telling. Her strategy, she explained, was to wear us both down until one of us confessed.

At some point, we went home. Kim continued to harp about our bathroom habits. ("I mean, WHO SHITS IN A BATHTUB?" she'd say. "One of you is disgusting.")

Neither of us was interested in having anything alcoholic to drink, so Bear and I decided to drink soda. I went into the kitchen and poured two glasses. One for Bear, and another for me. I spilled a little on the counter, wiped it up with a paper towel, and as I threw the paper towel in the trash, I noticed an empty mallomars wrapper in the trash can.

I looked at the kitchen table, and the mostly-eaten package of mallomars.

I looked in the trash, at the empty mallomars package.

And then it hit me.

The mess I cleaned up from the tub had had a curious odor, not at all like feces.

No, in fact, it smelled like...

Chocolate.

"So, who ate all the mallomars last night?" I asked.

Bear looked bewildered. Kim flared her nostrils indignantly, and lifted her chin in a gesture of defiance.

"I did. I hadn't eaten anything, so I had some before I went to bed."

"Some?" I asked, looking meaningfully at the package on the table.

"Okay, I had a bunch of them. But we didn't have any dinner."

Suddenly, I became Hercule Poirot, without the accent. "Yes," I said, "which would account for the consistency of the mess in the tub this morning."

Yes, the phantom was unmasked (Rooby roo!), done in by her love of Nabisco's delightfully incriminating treat.

Sometimes life presents us with delicious ironies.