Frank had to take the toilet tank off so I can paint behind the toilet. Believe me, there is only 1 inch of space behind it. I took a picture because I know Bikermommy is not going to believe that I couldn’t have painted it without taking it off. Short of raising my non-existent magic wand and shouting “Reducto!” at the toilet, this was the only option.
Anyway, I suggested that Frank prep the area for water spillage, because even though the tank was drained as much as possible, there would be water all over the floor if he didn’t prepare.
FRANK J.: There’s not much water left in the tank.
SARAHK: You still need to have something there.
FRANK J.: It’ll be fine. There’s not that much water.
So I went back to my taping, and after a couple of minutes, the first bolt came off the bottom of the toilet tank.
FRANK J.: Uh, I need a towel!
I just jogged to the hall closet and got a big old towel. I didn’t even smirk. Of course, I smirk now as I blog this, but I kept a straight face, handed him his towel, and started to walk away. But then I saw him toss the towel down on the floor, spread it out, and stand on it to produce maximum floor-to-towel transfer. Disgusting. Did I mention he was wearing socks? No shoes?
SARAHK: Your socks are going to get wet.
FRANK J. [pretending he planned this and looking me straight in the face and grinning]: Yes, I know.
SARAHK: Wet with toilet water.
Ew. I get that it’s water that hasn’t gone into the toilet bowl, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s one mechanism and one giant bacteria farm. All I could think of was how I wanted to throw some rubbing alcohol at his feet. At his whole self.
By the way, he did take off the second bolt as I continued my taping (“I need another towel”, she remembers smugly), and the toilet tank went onto the plastic sheeting on the floor, this one an insistence rather than a suggestion. “You’re going to need a place to put that when you get it off. You should plan for that in advance.”
Just now I was walking through the livingroom to the kitchen. Because everyone makes dinner at 9 p.m. Mind you, it’s been a good half hour since he took off the toilet tank.
FRANK J.: My socks are wet.
SARAHK: You are wearing toilet water on your feet! You are so gross!
FRANK J. [grinning and taking off his socks, putting them in the laundry room]: It’s water that never goes in the toilet bowl. It’s clean water.
SARAHK: It’s toilet water. Yuck.
He walked through our bedroom, livingroom, kitchen, entryway in his toilet water socks. I’m going to have germ-farm nightmares tonight. And now that I think on it, those feet will touch me in bed tonight.
SARAHK: You have to wash your feet before you touch me in bed tonight.
FRANK J.: Ok, fine.