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Thursday, July 17, 2008

Neighbors: and You Thought Dust Was Bad ...

By Rosie Schnieder
For the Telegraph
      OK, I surrender. I am defeated and humbled by an entity so heinous ... so horribly inhuman that it plagues me now, even as I write these trembling words. I have fought the good fight, yet mine enemy persists and now I must speak the name of the greatest foe that ever afflicted humanity.
    More annoying than an overbearing in-law, more persistent than my desire to consume mass quantities of pure milk chocolate, more invasive than 1,000 cell phones in my head blaring 1,000 dissonant ringtones simultaneously — the reason for rant is DUST.
    Dust is a pox upon the bosom of womankind, and in fairness maybe a couple of gay men. But as a caveat to gay men everywhere, I must confess a lack of first-hand knowledge, for thus far no man, gay or straight, has ever volunteered to help me dust. Between you and me, it's entirely reasonable to hypothesize that housecleaning was never included in their DNA by way of the Big Kahuna.
    Nope, it's just me and my special low-tech dust-fighting weapons arsenal that includes various and sundry oily, pathetic-looking cloths, dust masks and plastic gloves, several half-filled bottles of anonymous oils with labels undecipherable, paper towels and spray bottles filled with vinegar, a .357 Magnum, and the ubiquitous Swifferthings which I have resolved to stash en masse in strategic locations wherever dust rears its ugly menace.
    The other day I was having lunch with my friend Cindy at The Grill when she reached over and plucked one of those ugly little clothettes out of my bra. Right before I landed a ladylike haymaker on her brow, I looked down and was startled by the existence of cleavage dust. It's everywhere, I tell ya!
    And it gets worse. The other day I was sitting on my couch, watching clouds of imported bilingual Arizonan dust motes pour through my screen door and drawing arcane symbols in the quarter-inch layer of dust on my coffee table, all the while mumbling incoherently about the existential futility of housecleaning. I turned on the television for a moment of distraction and had a little visit from Mr. Irony: it was a PBS show, the final nail in the coffin of my despair, called "Dust and You," or some such banal-sounding thing. But according to this enlightening little gem of programming, it wasn't the dust that I need to worry about, it was something FAR WORSE.
    Apparently mixed in with the dust, everywhere that dust assaults our civilized sensibilities, we get the added benefit of millions of horribly ugly dust mites. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT Google this evil little gnome for a picture. You will never look at your pillow the same way. Dust mites make the monster from "Alien" look like a lap dog. But that is not even the worst of it.
    The supremely unpalatable truth is that as we breathe, eat and sleep, these little dust mites are pooping everywhere you could imagine and some places you probably shouldn't. We live with dust mite poop. In fact, these misanthropic, microscopic denizens of dust have made our homes their personal litter box. YUCK!
    If I could find a friendly English-speaking dust mite, I would use reason as a first resort.
    "Please, Mr. Dust Mite, could you not poop all over my house. I mean I don't come to your house and tinkle all over the place. Now please be reasonable."
    And if reason doesn't succeed, I will regain my sanity by whatever means possible. I will rise to this dubious challenge and take positive action. But first I need a really small — I mean tiny — little pooper scooper and several thousand rolls of dust mite-size toilet paper. I mean if they're going to poop on my pillow, they're gonna be civilized about it.
    Neighbors is a lighthearted weekly column written by folks in the community. If you would like to contribute to Neighbors, contact Rory McClannahan at 823-7102 or online at editor@mvtelegraph.com.>   

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