Yes, I recognize that is an absurd title.
But it totally happened.
Let me explain.
My boyfriend's aunt and uncle moved a little over two months ago to a new house.
They call it "downsizing." Pretty much there's just a smaller yard.
So last week they give us the tour because we housesat for them over the weekend.
And when I say housesat, pretty much we just eat their food, enjoy their satellite TV (we don't even have cable) and make sure they're dog stays out of trouble.
Anyway, back to the tour.
My boyfriend's aunt is showing me around, and makes a big deal out of the BEAUTIFUL jacuzzi tub they have.
She raves about this thing, I practically tries to get me to try it out right then and there.
Obviously I didn't.
But over the weekend, I felt it was my duty to try out that amazing tub. Because my boyfriend's aunt depended on me.
Keep in mind, because of her heart-felt endorsement of this tub, I did, in fact, assume she had tried out the tub.
Just remember that little nugget.
So, out of the kindness of my heart, I filled up the tub (which took quite a while by the way, this thing was huge) got in, stretched out and turned on the jets.
I should mention that at the point when I hit the bubble button (isn't that a funny phrase?) I was already leaning back with my eyes closed.
I looked like one of those Calgon commercials.
Until I opened my eyes. Then I started screaming.
The whole tub was full of big, black chunks of yuck.
At this point my boyfriend runs in, assuming I'm being attacked by an ax murder or have discovered a dead body or accidentally cut off my foot in a freak bathtub stopper accident.
But no, I'm just floating among a tub full of black, flaky nastiness.
And you know what his first thought was?
That I had pooped the tub. The boy thought I had pooped the tub.
Love is thinking the girl you're dating pooped the tub and not automatically breaking up right then and there.
He, luckily, stuck around long enough to learn what had happened, and even stuck around to clean out the tub while I desperately tried rinse off in the shower.
But I wasn't quick enough. I am incredibly allergic to mold. Apparently, being naked in a horse-trough sized tub of the stuff make for a very rough 48 hours. My whole body hurt. I meant HURT. Like getting a tattoo all over your body at the same time hurt.
As it turns out, despite living there for two whole months, no one (but me) had tried out the tub. No one. Maybe not even the previous owners.
As I lay near death, clinging on to hope that my obituary would not mention that I died from jacuzzi poisoning and that my boyfriend would be nice enough to clean my house before my parents saw it during the visitation or something, I looked up the goop.
Turns out this is pretty common.
Common enough that, when I mentioned it this morning at work (the abridged, suspected poop-less version) a bunch of people knew exactly what I was talking about.
In fact, one of my good friends mentioned that her brother was trying to romance a lady one time and that happened.
That might even be worse than my experience.