Welcome to the empty bottle graveyard. Please tread softly through with an awed hush of reverence as we memorialize these wonderful bottles and the short but productive life they led. We understand that it wasn't the eye-catching packaging that made them so special, rather it served as a mere vessel to house the more important contents within them. Yes, because, truly, it's what they had inside that counts.
I keep my vast assortment of personal shower necessities shelved in the rack that hangs suspended from the shower head because that's the designated place for them. Sadly, I'm not the sole Infidel butt that gets scrubbed in this shower stall turned communal mini-Infidel bath house. Between our two youngest children, Papi, and all of my gear, it makes for more shampoo/soap/scrubbies/sponges than you could shake a whole flock of animated Scrubbing Bubbles at. Naturally, the wee Infidels need their bath stuff placed at a convenient, easy to reach level, so I gave them their own shower corner. Papi, though, has decided to litter the entire shower bottom with his manly man variety of masculine hygiene paraphernalia. Wait! Before you all go "Awwwwwww" at how harmonious and utopian our shared shower collection arrangement seems, there's trouble in Infidel shower paradise. I discovered that nearly all the bottles have long since run dry. The ones that look full? They're full alright......of stagnanated water from the kids filling them up. It took the large size Target bag to deal with the removal of all the crap culled from our shower bottom yesterday.
Apparently, the rest of my shower sharing clan have adopted a "See No Trash, Hear No Trash, Speak No Trash, Pick Up No Trash" policy. Which leaves me to fulfill the official duties of The Shower Undertaker, all alone. Father Al Gore will jump for joy when he learns that we believe in reincarnation, though. Yes, one day, through the mystical sorcery performed down at the recycling plant, our bottles shall rise up to live once more.