Christmas comes early to one third-floor stall

Nothing as generous (or as sanitary!) as leaving a pinch for the next guy.

Thank you, Secret Santa. Thank you.

Crack attack

In general, it has been my potty blogger philosophy to cover only those events that actually occur in the building mentioned in the blog’s name.

But this weekend, I endured a potty experience away from 1160 Battery that must be discussed.

It WAS a work-related incident and so I feel completely comfortable talking about it here. Well...as comfortable as one CAN be when talking about a toilet-induced ass injury.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

On Saturday, I took an extended trip to a large retail establishment for a little client-related recon. Without mentioning names, suffice it to say that I needed to spend several hours at a store learning more about a particular line of products.

And is wont to happen over the course of a couple of hours, my body gave me the high sign that it was time to conduct some business.

I asked the (incredibly friendly!) staff about the location of the men’s room and he pointed me to the back corner of the store.

When I entered the men’s room, I was relieved to see that it was a single-room situation where I would have the entire space—toilet, sink, etc.—all at my disposal. This sort of set-up always gives me confidence that no matter what my body throws at me, I have the resources (paper towels, warm water, etc.) to deal with the aftermath.

But a quick look at the commode told me that this was not going to be the stress-free situation I hoped for. Like some sort of chimpanzee owner with half its face mauled off, a good chunk of the lid was missing.

As it was my only option (and the business portion of the meeting seemed to be starting with some urgency) I lifted what was left of the lid and sat down.

Immediately, a pain shot through my right butt cheek.

When you sit down on an unfamiliar toilet and the first sensation is searing pain through your ass, a number of things flash through your brain:

* First, you consider the possibility that the mythical “animal through the sewer pipe” has claimed its first victim.

* Second, you quickly calculate the probability that a small hypodermic needle escaped your attention.

* Third, you wonder if you are the first person to have a micro-seizure localized to your sitty-part.

What you do NOT consider is that a small hairline fracture in the plastic toilet seat has responded to your weight by opening its pinchers and grabbing a chunk of your butt.

With the mirror at my disposal, I was able to stand and inspect the full horror of my injury.

With my emergency kit out of reach in my car, I was forced to improvise. I tore a small piece of paper towel and affixed it to the affected area. In the mirror, it looked as if a 15-year old boy had gotten a little too aggressive with his first shave...if my ass was a 15-year-old boy’s face, that is.

Once my business was completed, I did inform of the store manager of a “situation” with the toilet in the men’s room. I urged him find a quick remedy. I think my tear-stained cheeks (face cheeks, that is) underlined the severity of the situation.

Two days (and a healthy slathering of Neosporin) later, I am on the mend.

But I will be inspecting seats much more closely in the future. I urge you to do the same.

Stay safe out there, people.

Put the lotion in the basket

We've already talked about the amazing personal touches to be found in the second floor men's room, but one deserves further discussion: the basket.

Why are there two giant bottles of lotion in the basket?

There are only two reasons that a guy needs lotion in the bathroom. And ONE bottle would be plenty for the dry hands, so...

Here's to soft skin.

If those paper towels could talk

A curious discovery on the floor of the third floor womb stall this morning: a giant wad of paper towels next to the toilet.

What, exactly, are the circumstances that lead up to that scene? A desperate co-worker rushes into the men's room and thinks, "I can't be sure how my Thanksgiving feast is going to play out over the next few minutes," and grabs and enormous pile of paper towels before heading in to conduct his business?

If you feel like you may need some extra artillery to fight the battle this afternoon, this may be the stall for you.

Lending library

Generosity is a wonderful thing. And one should never look a gift horse in the mouth.

But what if that horse was lying in a puddle of its own urine?

That's the tricky thing about reading material left behind in a bathroom stall, especially when it's left on the ground.

As you can see here, a colleague left a copy of the newspaper in the third floor womb stall. And he even placed it strategically on the equator so that it could be enjoyed by the occupants of either stall.

But unless your eyesight is far better than potty bloggers, reading the paper necessitates a close encounter with the floor.

It's your call, men.

The forbidden artistry of the third floor

Compared to the FLAIR in second floor men’s room, the third floor facilities are much more austere. (Or, if you’re an ad douche, “more modern.”)

Because it is shared with another business on this floor, decorative touches are strictly forbidden. That means no music, no scale, and no stall reading material.

The only thing that third floor DOES have over its second floor counterpart is a full-length mirror on the wall by the door. A nice touch, but it’s no sink-side basket of supplies.

The simple metal sign that hangs from the dropped-ceiling in the hallway points to a fully functional but completely plain space.

But if there’s one thing we’ve learned from artists in totalitarian cultures is that creativity finds a way.

Yes, the occasional “hilarious” sign gets tacked up from time to time. But the true artistic resistance comes in the form of more elaborate fecal deliveries. An under-the-lid frosting here…a top-side swirl there…men are putting their personal stamp on the space the only way they can.

Artists, we salute you. We are horrified by you and question your anatomy…but we salute you.

Toilet tyranny

Mixed feelings about this.

On one hand, I appreciate my colleague taking the time to create and post this sign on the outside of the second floor womb stall.

On the other hand, the use of the Guy Fawkes mask is confusing. What specific tyranny is my colleague protesting? How is "the man" oppressing you by providing you a place to poop? It feels like some sort of personal Occupy (Bowel) Movement, but I can't quite connect the dots.

Second-floor soundtrack

While the “bones” of the second floor men’s room may be uninspired, the potty powers-that-be her at 1160 Battery have added a number of personal touches that raise the bar on this particular business chamber.

* A full-size scale just like your doctor’s office!

* A basket of bathroom supplies on the sink counter!

* A personal can of air-freshener AND a book of collected essays in the stall!

But the single most distinguishing feature on the second floor is the music. A speaker system that has been piped into the hallway outside of the restrooms and then…two speakers strategically placed INSIDE each restroom.

(This was actually a reader’s suggestion at potty blogger’s last place of employment. But here, the dream is a reality.)

The source of the music is not some canned Muzak service, but somebody’s eclectically-stocked iPod. The identity of that “somebody” is a well-guarded secret, but their tastes range from classical to heavy metal to the day’s top pop hits.

The effect is, depending on the soundtrack, delightful…or disturbing. To potty blogger’s taste, being forced to perform a delicate drop-off to the driving guitars of speed metal is nerve-wracking.

But the right song? The right song is magical. It masks the more disturbing “soundtrack” of the co-worker conducting business in the adjacent stall. Although it does make the likelihood of a "call and response" scenario more difficult, it does tee up the possibility of somebody creating their own symphony in perfect sync with the background track.

Keep making your beautiful music, friends.

You again?

Oh, no. He followed me.

The guy with the peculiarly placed anus? The one who has the ability to poop UNDER the toilet seat?

He's here. In the building. Or at least the evidence in third floor "big boy in the middle" suggests that he's made an appearance.

Is this really happening? Is he really here? Or is this northern butthole location really more common than previously imagined?

Or (gasp) am I living in some sort of bizarre bathroom Fight Club scenario? AM I THE ROGUE FROSTER AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW IT??!?

So many questions…

A whole new world

Let’s get the lay of the land, shall we?

While the name of this blog references the third floor men’s room, we’re covering all-things-potty at 1160 Battery. (And the floor reference is confusing anyway; the lobby of this building is on the second floor so one is really two, two is really three, etc. It’s a world gone mad.)

Having spent the last several years in a “full house” situation (three stalls, two urinals) I’m adjusting to a new layout—a single urinal, a large penthouse stall in the middle, and a smaller stall up against the wall.

Like any new relationship, I’m still getting used to the differences and trying not to say things like, “Well, my old men’s room had this really great….”

Honestly, this “big boy in the middle” layout has its charms. There’s something very comforting about slipping into a nice, tight stall up against the wall. I call this stall “the womb” and it’s quickly become my top choice to conduct business.

The handicap stall in the middle is an interesting trade-off: more space to stretch out, but like any Peter Brady situation, you to have the potential for activity on either side.

The single urinal feels more strong than sad. Too busy to get lonely.

The urinal is tucked-in behind wall, so upon entering the rest room, you have to make a hard right turn. There is the very real danger of running smack into a co-worker standing at the urinal, so caution is required to avoid any unintentional pee-pee-to-butt encounters.

Opposite of the stalls, there are three sinks. The one-to-one ratio of toilets to sinks means there is never a wait to wash your hands. (Although the middle sink on three seems to be currently out of service, but hands are not going unwashed.)

And, there is a hand-sanitizer dispenser on the wall by the door—a final guilt trip for the non-hand washer that says, “Hey, you disgusting pig, will you at least sanitize your hands before spreading your filth to all your co-workers?” I can attest to its effectiveness.

It's a whole new world. I hope I will be very, very happy here.

NEXT UP: The differences between third floor and second floor.

And so it begins...again

A new location. A new potty blog.

As my friend Will.I.am says: let's get it started in here.

Yes, this blog continues a grand tradition. But comparing your third wife to your second wife is never a good policy. So consider this a clean slate. I mean, as clean as a slate can be when the slate in question is a public toilet.

For those readers new to the party, yes the name of this blog references a very specific location. But coverage will not be limited to the happenings in just the third floor men's room. Nay, all activity in any 1160 Battery restroom will be celebrated in these pages.

It's more of a lifestyle than a destination.

As my friend Will.I.am says: ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya...