Toothpaste Tube

SANITY ON BACKORDER

From Hive Peak Boulevard

By Danu Marche

Humor Columnist

Published: December 11, 2025

Synapse & Spectacle

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This week, my toothpaste declared war.

It started with a morning ambush. I reached for the tube expecting cooperation, and instead it handed me one tiny, resentful blob — the dental equivalent of a slow clap. Apparently, my cohabitant is a “top-squeezer,” which means they’ve been applying pressure from the wrong end like a chaos troll, leaving the lower two-thirds of the tube in a crumpled hostage situation.

We’ve been here before. At first, I thought it was just mild incompatibility — like preferring different pizza toppings. But no. This is a full-blown domestic Cold War, with daily acts of toothpaste brinkmanship. I roll from the bottom with military precision. They squeeze from the middle like they’re performing CPR on a tube of anchovy paste.

The escalation is subtle. I’ll spend time redistributing paste toward the cap, only to find it reset overnight — deflated and folded over itself like a defeated accordion. They’ve even taken to “tube folding,” which is basically war crime territory in oral hygiene diplomacy.

Now, before you suggest a second tube, let me remind you — this isn’t about toothpaste anymore. It’s about principle. History teaches us that the moment you retreat to separate tubes is the moment you admit ideological defeat. And while I’m willing to compromise on thermostat settings and laundry folding techniques, I will not — will not — cede the moral high ground of tube management.

Then there’s the covert ops. They’ve started hiding the toothpaste in the cabinet behind the mouthwash, forcing me to confront my own reflection in the mirror and ask, Is this who I’ve become? A guerrilla in the bathroom insurgency?

After my existential brushing crisis this morning, I spotted today’s squirrel sighting. Does this make it 1,200? I think they’re all taking shifts. Perched in the crook of the downspout between a row of icicles, holding what looked suspiciously like a tiny brass door key, turning it slowly between its paws with leisurely malice. It didn’t use it. It just… set it down slowly beside itself like a trophy, then stared until I felt like I owed it rent. Or was it… could that be some sort of burgling threat?

Anyway, cup of coffee in hand, back in the bathroom, I tried a diplomatic approach: I left the tube neatly rolled, cap tightened, and a small sticky note that read, “The war is over if you want it.” The next morning, the note was gone, replaced with a smear of mint gel across the counter. Message received.

So we’ve reached an uneasy stalemate. I unroll. They squeeze. We both pretend not to notice that the toothbrush holder now wobbles ominously, as if anticipating the next skirmish.

If this ends with us in separate houses, it won’t be over irreconcilable differences — it’ll be because one of us bought a novelty toothpaste pump shaped like a walrus and called it “neutral ground.”

Until then, I’m keeping my toothbrush armed and my dignity intact.

“If your household has survived the Toothpaste Tube Cold War, please send tactical maps.”

©2025 Danu Marche