Cohabitation in Japan Study #1

As I was sitting on the toilet the other night I happened to look in the wastebasket as I was throwing in an empty TP roll and noticed a crumpled piece of toilet paper with camel-coloured smudges on it. No, this isn't going to be gross so keep reading (you don't think I am that potty-minded do you?!).

I immediately had to know what offending and at first unrecognizable matter had wound up on a tissue in my wastebasket, so I pulled it out and started to examine the surface, including the ever trusty sniff test.

MAKE-UP FOUNDATION!

I don't and never have used liquid foundation or any kind of foundation that could end up in such quantity on a tissue.

I am the only female in the house.

The beau doesn't borrow my lingerie or make-up as far as I know.

You know where this is leading right? To an all-time 11 p.m. freak the fuck out. I even sniffed the TP again to see if I could discern any kind of scent (make-up smell). Not owning any foundation or having any recollection of wiping anything similar on a tissue in the past, oh, year, the only conclusion I could reach was there had been another lady up in my house.

When the beau got home around 4, I was in the dead of sleep but as soon as I felt a kiss hello I was immediately all, How did a foundation-covered piece of toilet paper wind up in our bathroom?! I don't use foundation so unless you want to cop to using some, there has been another woman in the apartment wiping globs of foundation off her face! Why?! I watched and waited for his response, even half-asleep I was looking for the direction his eyes travelled as he answered, having watched enough cop shows to memorize sound interrogation techniques when I see them.

His response was predictable and me, having been sleeping up until this point, promptly went back to sleep, figuring another round of questions would have to wait until the next evening, in that tiny window of time that I come in the door from work and greet him dressing for work.

The next morning I got up feeling about as awake as I do most mornings, until I remembered the insidious tissue. Despite believing my suspicions to be baseless and batshit crazy, I couldn't get over the fact that I couldn't remember throwing said tissue out myself. And I have an excellent memory, honed from years of replaying actions and conversations in my interactions with others with obsessive detail, trying to figure out whether the other person actually likes me or is just being n i c e. Now I did have a vague vaaaague recollection of grabbing some TP to wipe something off, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pinpoint the memory or at least the day it would have occurred. So then I began a train of thought along the lines of this must be my not-to-be-trusted mind knowing there was another woman here but trying to come up with any excuse not to believe it. Yes, this is actually the way I think so you can imagine the circles I can go in, round and round we go, until I distract myself enough to shut my inner self up. I am tired just writing that.

So I did what every Law & Order loving human would do, I set up a mini-lab on my bathroom counter, overhead lights burning bright. I haven't watched years of Law & Order for nothing (including Special Victims Unit, pronounced svuuu to those in the know), and you can bet I put it to good use. I realized I had one product in the cabinet that resembled foundation - some kind of liquid pore sealer that I never used except. That's right! To try and cover up a pimple on my chin this last weekend because yes, I am breaking out like a fucking teenager from all the stress I have been under this past month. Either that or it's from the entire container of Betty Crocker's vanilla rainbow chip frosting that I consumed over the past week in an attempt to smother my stress to death in sugary velvetiness.

But I didn't squirt enough into my hand to unthinkingly wipe it on a tissue did I? Surely I would have just washed them...tricky, veeery tricky.

I squeezed some hole filler out of its tube and tried to realistically wipe it off with a piece of toilet paper, with the thoughtless ease of someone not conducting CSI experiments in her bathroom. It looked similar but after some comparative sniffing and touch examinations I wasn't convinced beyond a reasonable doubt. I then looked at the time and realized if I didn't punch out of the lab and leave I would be late for real work. I stuffed the beakers and test tubes into my side of the cabinet and took off.

My mind was riddled for the entire day with the thoughts of a crazy person. I couldn't remember creating that fucking tissue and yet felt bad questioning the beau about something I didn't really believe, or even have reason to suspect. And with the niggle of a memory of having possibly wiped off hole filler in the last few days but still no cigar, shining the lamp in the beau's eyes would be pointless, because I wouldn't believe whatever came out of his mouth. And yet..

when I got home I knew I had about 3 minutes to trick him into confessing to something before he shot out the door so I went right to the point. Who the hell was here and why was she wiping foundation off her face?! I hope you decide to confess to having used some of my hole filler if you are going to tell me you've done nothing! And on and on. Poor sweet man.

We walked to the door together, going back and forth, him realizing my impending nutdown and me my weak and unfounded argument (I had a quick peak at the two samples that had dried since morning and what do you know, similar in look, feel and smell). He started laughing as he got in the elevator, which of course got him a why are you laughing! Because you know the jig is up?! The interrogation then ended abruptly with blown kisses and love yous and I was left to ponder how peaceful my life would be without stress, frosting and breakouts.