Toiletry packaging and its discontents

When I go to the Safeway in search of hand soap, I usually buy the cheap store brand: A dumpy bottle filled with bile-yellow liquid. Oh, Safeway tries to be stylish, affixing pictures of fish and coral to the back of the bottle. But the color of the soap makes the serene sea seem more like an environmental disaster.

Last week, I splurged and bought fancy, “Method,” hand wash. The crystalline blue soap not only looks gorgeous in its teardrop-shaped bottle, it also fits perfectly in the porcelain protuberance above my sink. The designers of my closet-sized bathroom, by the way, did not see it fit to install a sink cabinet or towel hooks, but they did not skimp on soap-holding implements. My sink has two depressions to hold bar soap, and they primarily collect water for mold colonies. Above the sink are two soap-holders that jut out of the wall and serve as auxiliary Petri dishes.

So I was really excited to find that the Method soap bottle fit perfectly in the bar-soap-holder. What a wise purchase! Unfortunately, Method and my relationship went downhill from there. It took me fifteen minutes of twisting the top around before I coaxed it into dispensing soap. But instead of the Safeway soap’s gentle squirts, Method ejaculates soap, sometimes several feet.

It adds excitement to my morning routine and sometimes results in last-minute wardrobe changes. But overall, Method was a disappointment.

However, in the toiletry-container-innovation department, I cannot speak highly enough of the one-handed, flip-top toothpaste bottle. Such an improvement over the tube and screw top! Unfortunately, its oval-shaped footprint does not match the bar-soap depression, and it topples off the sink with some regularity. Thankfully, the toothpaste has yet to land in the toilet, which is more than I can say for my cellphone.