My dad and Sallie sent me Omaha steaks for my birthday, which Mark really appreciated. And I did too. But when I got the package, I was most excited about the dry ice inside.
Oh, this will be a fun thing for Zoe to see, I thought.
But where could I put it?
I had just cleaned the downstairs bathroom that morning. Perfect, I decided. I’d put it in the toilet. Because, you know. That made sense. In my head.
After telling this story a few times, I’ve found every guy gasps in understanding of where this story is going at this point. While all the women say something along the lines of: “So?”
So. It was great. Here’s proof:
OK. It’s a boring picture. Of my daughter looking at a toilet. But there’s dry ice in there.
Anyway, Zoe enjoyed watching the dry ice create pillows of steam and I showed her how it billowed up when you poured more water in it. Etc. You know, 10 minutes of keeping her occupied. Success.
But then. But then I realized that what had been water in the toilet bowl had turned to solid ice. Oops. I thought, hope that doesn’t cause a problem.
But I poured hot water over it and it melted. No issues.
Mark got home and I told him about the steaks and the dry ice fun we had. He gasped. He told me I was lucky the toilet hadn’t cracked. Oh geez, I said. I wondered about that when the water froze. He rolled his eyes, the equivalent of telling me that I don’t deserve to eat
his my Omaha steaks.
A few days later Mark used the downstairs toilet. When he came out, he said water was leaking from underneath. “I wonder what happened?” he said. The thing is is HE WAS SERIOUS. HE FORGOT. I DIDNT HAVE TO ‘FESS UP.
But I did.
I called the plumber. I explained on the phone what I did. The person on the other end didn’t react, but I’m sure as soon as we got off there was lots of guffaws around the plumber office about dumb non-plumbers of the female persuasion. Whatever. Get a belt.
Anyway, the toilet was leaking out the bottom where a seal had been ruined, the plumber explained to me in exhaustive detail. Well, that’s good, I thought as he kept talking about seals and glue and even floors and God knows what else. At least we won’t need a new toilet.
While he talked I took a picture of his work for Mark to see. “This doesn’t look good,” I wrote in the text.
An hour later the plumber, when trying to put the toilet back together, found a hairline crack all the way down the basin that was wet when he put water in the bowl. So it was leaking. We’d need a whole new toilet, he said. This conversation has been condensed. It took him 15 minutes to tell me that.
So we got a new toilet. Works just the same as the old one. And those steaks? They were great, even considering they turned out to be the most expensive steaks I’ve ever had.
I learned my lesson. Next time I’ll save the dry ice for the punch bowl. And next time I’ll hire a less talkative plumber. One who wears a belt.