The Florida Job

How to Destroy a Toilet Without Even Trying

Some people leave behind a legacy of love, laughter, or generational wealth.
My mother-in-law?

She left behind love, laughter, and enough stories to fill a book—but the one about a Daytona motel toilet she blew up? That one still bubbles up from time to time.

God bless her. She was a lovely, sweet woman, particular as they come—raised two kids, married a decent man, made a mean pot roast, and endured decades of family chaos with only minor visible twitching. But nothing, and I mean nothing, could’ve prepared her for what went down in Room 216 of the Ocean Breeze Motel just outside Daytona Beach.

Let’s set the scene.
Family vacation. Florida. Mid-1960s. Think humid air, matching T-shirts, and one of those disposable Kodak cameras that turned every picture into a time capsule of crooked bangs and polyester shorts. The whole crew—mom, dad, two wild kids, and a mountain of luggage—crammed into a hotel room that could generously be described as mid-century coastal chic—if you consider mildew an accent color.

Here was the first mistake: four people, one room, one toilet. That’s not a vacation. It’s a hostage situation.

Now, anytime you take a digestive system that’s used to casseroles, potlucks, and the occasional Jell-O mold and send it on a week-long binge of fried seafood, cocktail sauce, and hush puppies the size of baseballs—you’re tempting fate—and your plumbing.

That combo doesn’t digest. It plots.

Sometime around 8:30 PM, after a full day of heatstroke, seashell shopping, and sibling bickering, Mom excused herself. Nobody thought twice—though in hindsight, given the size of the shrimp basket from Captain Crabby’s, they probably should’ve.

That’s when it happened.
The Incident.

There are no delicate words for it.
That toilet was destroyed. The walls shook. The kids went silent. The curtains moved—even though the window was closed.

The smell? Biblical. Like it could run a skunk from under an outhouse.

But here’s where things go from awful to legendary—because my father-in-law, being the deeply empathetic and ever-tactful man that he is, named it.
When she finally came out of the bathroom, he grinned and said,
“Well, honey, I guess that’s what you call a Florida Job.”

Of course, the kids thought this was the funniest thing that ever happened in the history of the world. From then on, it was:

“Y’all packed sunscreen and matches, right?”
“Better call maintenance before Mom gets settled.”
“Easy on the hush puppies, Mom.”

Mom did not think it was funny.
At all.
Not then.
Not for a long time.

But years later, if you caught her just right, she’d smile—and even admit it was a little funny.

Of course, it’s easier to laugh once you realize everybody in the family has had their own Florida Job moment. Some just had fewer witnesses.

Inevitably, this story became family legend—right up there with birthdays, weddings, and the time Jimmy got stung by a jellyfish on his, uh—well, you know.

Every family has its stories—some sweet, some that fade, and a few that really stick.

But The Florida Job?
That one left a mark.

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That’s The Condition—equal parts love, family, and minor property damage.
If you’ve ever been the reason someone opened a window, hit that ❤️ and share this with the family member who still brings it up.