The COOL WHIP Container On My Toilet Tank and Other Tour-of-My-Bathroom Mysteries
Product Design Is a THING.
I don’t mean to tempt fate. I don’t mean to attract trouble. But, sometimes we ADHDers get these impulsivity itches. And there’s one I’mma ’boutta scratch.
It’s been building in me for a few months. The only thing holding me back is the new year, and you know what that means. (Okay, maybe you don’t know—my $5,000 health insurance deductible is back in play as of January 1st.)
But, it’s not unlikely that I’ll have an E.R. visit in my future.
This simmering disaster is what the tech folks call “predictive analytics.” You predict the future based on past data. My data history shows impulsivity, coupled with physical awkwardness. Add my handy butcher knife to the mix, and the result resembles the prom scene from Carrie. It’s what the mathletes among us might deem “a probability.”
Whenever I so much as reach for a large knife, my husband’s blood pressure graph going vertical. He always jumps in to de-escalate. “Here, let me do this for you,” he’ll say. Me + Sharp Objects = No Bueno.
Now imagine I’m giving you a tour of my bathroom.
“A butcher knife?” you might ask. (I’m always having these pretend conversations with you in my head as I write my Substacks.)
“Yes, my new reader friend. A butcher knife. By the way, it’s totally weird that you’re in my bathroom with me right now. I guess this is as good a time as any to explain how my ADHD mind works. Expediently. My butcher knife is the only tool I can think of to cut open this bloody Matrix hair conditioner bottle.”
I hand said Matrix hair conditioner bottle to you.
“See how it’s collapsed inward?” I continue my rant. “That plastic is THICK. I don’t have the hand strength to squeeze it any tighter. Feel how heavy it is?
You sort of shake it up and down, feigning interest.
“I estimate it’s a good 60% still full. Wouldn’t you agree?
You nod in agreement.
“It no longer squirts its magic elixir for my split ends. So, enter, stage left, my butcher knife. It’s not like I have Paul Bunyan here to give it a good axe whack.” (This next part I think to myself and don’t say aloud: It’s times like these I wish tiny light sabers were available for consumers. Then I have a quick sidetrack daydream about the disasters that would ensue from everyday consumers accessing such a deadly device.)
“I work hard. I paid a lot for this conditioner,” I continue. “I refuse to waste one Matrix molecule. I know nothing about bottle design. I don’t know bottle designers. But this I do know: this Matrix bottle has earned the hashtag #fail.
As you look around my bathroom, you notice the large, orange-handled scissors in my makeup caddy just beyond the conditioner. You get a puzzled look on your face, so I quickly explain: “I use those to gut my Brazilian Blowout Deep Conditioning Masque* tubes, like a hunter gutting their first deer of the season. You’d be shocked at how much product is still in there, even when you think you’ve squeezed out every last drop. I’ll make you a video the next time I do it.”
As we continue our tour of my bathroom, you look to the left of my bathroom sink and note my storage cabinet. The products I use regularly are perched on top. Not inside. I follow your gaze. “If they’re out of sight, they’re out of mind,” I explain. “What’s logical to ADHDers doesn’t make sense to the normies.”
And then you spot the Cool Whip tub atop my toilet tank.
“Why is there a Cool Whip tub sitting on your toilet tank?” you ask.
“Because it’s the only way to access my skincare lotion,” I reply.
The people who design the actual pumps for haircare and skincare products are also high up on my Sh*t Listicle. I can never get these damned pumps to work for me. And then my stereotypical ADHD low-frustration tolerance rears its ugly head. Out pops my impulsivity…and the butcher knife.
I show you how I’ve devised this innovative, ADHD workaround for haircare and moisturizer container design. “This will simplify life and save money for everyone,” I declare. “Not just me with my ADHD Tax.” Skincare and haircare bottle and pump designers, take note.
METHOD: Simply butcher knife open any product with a defective pump and scrape all of the contents into a Cool Whip container. Problem solved!
And then I take a quick topic detour to share a non sequitur rant about refrigerator designs. “I have this innovative ADHD refrigerator design that saves money and reduces food waste for everyone. And check out this design flex: I incorporated a special compartment for Chinese mustard, soy sauce, and sweet-sour sauce packets. It’s seriously tragic IDEO hasn’t already hired me to represent neurodivergents for their new product designs,” I conclude.
This is why the main title of my upcoming book is SIMPLIFY.
I come back to earth to chat more about the haircare and skincare bottle designs. “The Mohs Scale measures the hardness of diamonds and gemstones. The Scoville Scale measures chili pepper heat units. And now, I proudly introduce to you The ADHDeeDee Scale. MY scale awards trophies for the Greatest User Experience Retardation.**
“Take the Matrix hair conditioner bottle design, for example: A PERFECT 10.”
This concludes the strange and random experience touring-my-bathroom-together-portion of my Substack. I’m off to mail Matrix their trophy:
*Affiliate link for Brazilian Blowout Conditioning Masque.
**Before I get flooded with the scalding scoldings, I must point out that since I literally have brain retardation with my missing chunk of prefrontal lobe, I’ve empowered myself to take back ownership of the term “retarded” in the same way rappers have empowered themselves to restore their ownership of the “n-word.” Yeah, I still get wildly uncomfortable hearing them use it because it’s such an ugly word, but I get it. They own it.
So…I, and my fellow neurodivergents who choose to, are now empowered to own the word “retarded.” I have it. And I will use it (alongside the fire-retardant textiles and extinguisher industries, naturally). I do not use it as a descriptor for the intellectually disabled, beyond my own brain’s foibles. For example, I’m open about being techno-tarded. I need someone riding shotgun with me on the struggle bus every time I have to learn a new app or software. I’d love to help user experience designers understand which word, icon, and button placements retard me from advancing beyond their first screen.
I use the word retarded for its literal meaning, per Merriam-Webster: to delay or impede the development or progress of : to slow up especially by preventing or hindering advance or accomplishment. I’m merely exercising my neurodivergent-empowered First Amendment right, which has been retarded, literally, for far too long.