A wet leaf stowed away on my shoe and didn't jump for freedom until I walked into the bathroom. I was giving myself one last look-see in the mirror before going to work when I looked down and saw it clinging to the floor tile. Sure, I could have thrown it in the trash, but that involved the complicated task of stepping on the pedal that raises the trash can lid. Instead, I decided to throw the leaf in the toilet since the lid for that was already up.

The leaf did not float as I had previously thought. It sank to the danger zone, the place where things like to hang out after an unsuccessful flush. This wouldn't have been a problem had the leaf looked like a leaf. Instead, it was three inches long, oval in shape, with bulbous brown spots dominating over a deep green color. Sure, I could have flushed the toilet, but that involved the complicated task of pulling a lever. Instead, I decided to write Patti a note that said, “That's a leaf in the toilet.”

I found a pen easy enough, but the plan hit a brick wall when I failed to find a notepad. Walking away was not an option, because it looked like I carelessly left my own feces resting in a toilet bowl. Sure, I could have flushed the toilet, but I didn't want to waste all that water. Instead, I reached into the toilet to retrieve the poopy leaf, then stepped on the trash can pedal to deposit it inside. There. Problem solved. I celebrated my victory of saving water and not doing more work than I had to by washing my hands thoroughly. Repeatedly.