The Scoop on Blue Goop
This is not regularly a column for household hints. And the following has no bearing on the state of our union, climate change, or global relations. But here’s a long-winded tip:
While I won’t mention any brand names, there exists a translucent, mildly gelatinous substance commonly sold for washing dishes. My plumber tells me to pour it down the drain when my sink is getting stopped up—followed by a big pot of boiling water. It works. And apparently won’t hurt the septic system.
While working on my deck, a carpenter once defended me from wasp attack with a hand sprayer containing this blue product diluted a bit with water. I watched armies of wasps fall to their doom.
Suffice it to say, this stuff has many uses other than washing dishes. My daughter and I, remembering the countless times duct tape has saved the day for us, dubbed the blue stuff “the duct tape of the goop world.” A relatively innocuous substance that replaces caustic chemicals for a multitude of problems is a good thing to have on hand.
But every rose has its thorn.
One afternoon last week, as I reached under the kitchen sink for a sponge, I noticed the rubbery shelf liner mats that are normally beige in color were looking a little green. I thought it might be mildew—given that they are confined to a closed space where water pipes converge. But further examination revealed that a bottle of blue goop had been knocked over and spilled.
No problem, I thought. These not-quite-rubber mats were advertised as machine washable. So I threw them in the washer, along with some mildly used rags waiting to be cleaned. I pondered whether or not to add a smidgeon of the “High Efficiency” laundry detergent my machine likes, but refrained, deciding the blue goop would probably provide sufficient cleansing power.
Minutes later, through the window of my front-loading washer, I could see the machine was completely overwhelmed with suds. I stopped the washer, waited for it to signal it was safe to open the door, and then OMG! Suds came pouring out all over the floor. I slammed the door shut—found a bucket, and proceeded opening and closing the door, collecting suds a bucket at time.
I piled three sinks with suds, then let the machine resume its washing cycle.
Suds reproduced in seconds. I repeated the process—more suds on the floor, which I scooped up with towels—shook the suds into the shower stall and threw the towels into the washer. Maybe if there were more things in the washer the suds wouldn’t reproduce so wildly?
Ha! Suds begat more suds, until I had enough to make a winter wonderland in Berryville Square. If only I had a truck into which I could funnel the foamy mess.
My washer, apparently much smarter than I knew, put the rags, mats, and towels through four rinse cycles without my asking it to. It knew the laundry wasn’t rinsed. But a couple hours later, suds were still abundant.
I stopped the washer, poured buckets of water in the kitchen sink to force the mountain of suds down the drain, and ultimately took everything out of the machine, rinsed each piece in the sink, and put it back in the washer, which I started from scratch—no soap.
The entire process carried me from mid-afternoon until bedtime. I’ve tried to imagine an equivalent problem scenario caused by an overuse of duct tape, but I come up empty.
So here’s the tip: If you spill the blue goop on your shelf mats/towels/clothes/sheets—throw them out. Buy new ones.