A Fine White Dust

The arrival of my tax check, as always, heralded the beginning of the Home Improvement Season here at The Catastrophe.



Agenda Item #1: The kitchen needs a ceiling.



"Gladys," I hear you saying. "Why doesn't your kitchen have a ceiling?" This is why. Note the date. That is correct. I was without a ceiling for a few days shy of a year.



That all changed this past week, however, as Morris returned, bringing with him a new assistant and many, many sheets of drywall. They did most of the installation on Tuesday; on Wednesday, they spread the compound.



And on Thursday--god help us all--they started sanding.



If you have never sanded drywall, or had drywall sanded in your home, the following experiment should prove illustrative:



1. Procure for yourself a large, powerful fan, of the sort normally found in jet-engines or wind-tunnels. Also, a fifty-pound bag of Pillsbury's Best all-purpose flour.

2. Position the fan in a central area of your home. Open all doors to adjacent rooms.

3. Open the bag of flour. Spread a three-inch-thick layer on the floor directly in front of the fan.

4. Turn on the fan.

5. Repeat as needed.



This entire house--from top to bottom, east to west, stem to stern--looks exactly like it was the epicenter of an explosion involving three years' worth of the gross domestic product of Colombia. There is not a single inch of surface that is not completely grayed-out. Even the cats look more elderly than usual.



The worst part: Morris is not done sanding yet. There is no point to removing the dust, because it will return on Monday. So in the meantime, I will be living in a simulacrum of the Arm & Hammer factory after a bad industrial accident.



Also, I will be dusting, vacuuming, and washing until the Rapture comes. (I am also accepting bets as to whether I will have gotten laid by that point. Current odds: 13-1 against.)