Paper or plastic?

True confession time, friends. Potty Blogger does not use a toilet seat cover every time he sits down to make the poops.

Don’t judge me.

Sometimes, I’m in a hurry and seconds count. Other times, I simply prefer the cold hard industrial plastic to the crinkle of the tissue paper. (Something about the paper reminds me of a doctor’s office visit. Is it just me?)

And really, how much protection does that flimsy strip provide? I mean, if the potty crabs are out, they’re going to find a way into your bottom casa, aren’t they?

Anyhoo, I would guess my ratio is probably 60-40, plastic to paper.

But the other day, I was faced with an etiquette question. Potty Blogger entered fourth floor men’s room and headed for the penthouse stall. A colleague was finishing his business at one of the urinals and said hello as he headed toward the sink.

When I got into the penthouse, I was faced with the question: do I just sit down and commence download or do I now need to make a rather elaborate show of pulling out the seat cover, making sure that my colleague overhears my effort? Do I need to send an audible signal that I am, in fact, not a disgusting pig?

I buckled to peer pressure, pulled out the cover and made a few overly-dramatic flourishes and crinkles that surely telegraphed "I am a clean teen."

My colleague left with his delicate sensibilities in tact. But my session felt like a trip to the doctor’s office. The things we do for other people.

Tuna fart

Let’s be honest, dear readers. Fourth floor men’s room is a pretty nice place.

This is the men’s room that is most frequently used but the men whose names are on the building. That sort of clientele means that you’re not usually going to find a rogue deposit sitting around unattended. That’s why this men’s room is a destination of choice for those with discriminating tastes.

But even fourth floor men’s room is not immune to the occasional bio-terror attack.

This morning, upon opening the door to fourth floor men’s room, Potty Blogger’s nose was assaulted with what can only be described as...tuna fart.

Not one of those personal serving snack size cans of tuna. We’re talking about one of those I-own-a-small-sandwich-shop-down-on-Kearny-and-go-to-Costco-for-those-bigger-than-your-head-cans of tuna.

It was a smell that made me feel bad for both tuna and farts.

Be strong, friends. Be strong.

And so it begins

Inspired, a new era in potty blogging begins.