There’s something going on in my bathroom while I’m not looking, and frankly, I’m starting to worry. Once a week, I have to scrub orange drip marks off the walls with my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (which really is, by the way, magic).

At first, I thought it was something my husband was causing because that seems like the sort of thing a husband would cause. And my husband in particular possesses the ability to spray water and God-knows-what-else for eight feet in all directions while doing simple things like flossing his teeth. But now I’m not so sure. Not unless he’s spitting orange Kool-aid onto the wall behind the toilet and up near the ceiling by the shower and also behind the towels, which admittedly we can’t firmly rule out.

Because I spend most of my time writing about murder and mayhem, my first thought was, “Kinda looks like blood splatter,” which it does. Orange alien blood splatter. And the possibility that your bathroom might be the E.T. killing fields is enough to give a person pause.

If it weren’t for the fact that I live on the top floor, I’d be worried about what might be coming out of the ceiling, but as is, I have only my own household to look on with suspicion and mistrust. I thought about a nanny-cam, one of those tiny video recorders hidden inside a stuffed animal. But you try explaining away a fuzzy rabbit perched on the toilet.

I know what would happen. I’d put it there. My husband would take it out and toss it on the bed. I’d put it back. Around and around we’d go until he’d accuse me of having some sort of psychotic toilet habit involving fluffy bunnies, and by that time, you’ve really escalated your orange drippy problem.

So for now, I keep scrubbing. But I’ll be watching. Oh yes, I’ll be watching.