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End Times: Sign 38

A high school friend of mine married a guy who gave her a vacuum for her birthday and a washer/dryer for Christmas. Whereas my response would have been to throw a load of laundry at his head while screaming that his unsentimental ass best get Hooverin’, she was thrilled with his gifts of household appliances, and for all I know is at this very moment adding a riding mower and ScumBuster Xtreme to her anniversary wish list.

Now I’m all for practicality, but there is nothing quite so unromantic as the accoutrements of housework. So imagine my surprise that I’m currently crushing on . . . a MOP.

And yet “mop” seems such an ugly, derisive mutter when it comes to the Method omop.

I’ve been using Method products for years; they may all be non-toxic and biodegradable, but there’s nothing granola about the clever packaging and stylish container design. And I HATE mopping: Swiffers are wasteful and ineffective, sponge mops are bacterial cesspools, and the very act of mopping is backache-provoking drudgery.

But omop, o omop, you’re the next best thing to an undocumented housekeeper. Let’s start with packaging: what isn’t recyclable is COMPOSTABLE. The omop box is pressed bamboo fiber; even before you’ve opened it, it’s in the process of decomposition. The included wood cleaner (in a recyclable bottle) is non-toxic and wax-free — perfect when certain household members crawl around the hardwoods before cramming their hands (or paws) in their mouths. The dry-mopping pads are corn-based and compostable; the wet-mopping pad (which easily Velcroes to the mop head) is washable microfiber. And the omop itself is ergonomically designed: a smart looped handle that arcs into a handsome brushed-metal body and ends at a wafer-thin and fully-pivoting head, which means it easily reaches under furniture and hugs the baseboards like no other mop’s business. Forget throwing your back into it; using the omop is more like — alright, I’m just gonna say it — more like DANCING WITH A GRACEFUL PARTNER.

So omop, you’ve taken the odious drudgery out of my second-least-favorite chore. Now if I can just convince Mike that nothing says Tracy’s next birthday like a self-cleaning toilet…

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