Fun things that give me a brief respite from dusting:

Zeke's daughter has been born! And she immediately started blogging. My kind of girl. Check her out.

The Stickman web animation series is one of my favorites -- incredible fight choreography, all done by stick figures. Now you can control the action! I so suck at this game....

A story that has been widely reported, but I'm going to link to it anyway: Chinese newspaper runs a story from The Onion, about how Congress is threatening to move to Memphis or Charlotte unless they get a new Capitol building with luxury boxes and a retractable dome, as if it were fact.

That alone is funny enough. But my absolute favorite part is this bit, from the Chicago Tribune/LA Times:

Yu Bin, the editor in charge of international news, acknowledged Thursday that he had no idea where the writer, Huang Ke, originally got the story. Yu said he would tell Huang to "be more careful next time."

But he adamantly ruled out a correction and grew slightly obstreperous when pressed to comment on the article's total lack of truth.

"How do you know whether or not we checked the source before we published the story?" Yu demanded in a phone interview. "How can you prove it's not correct? Is it incorrect just because you say it is?"

"Let me repeat that bit: "How can you prove it's not correct? Is it incorrect just because you say it is?" That, my friend, is the absolute perfect Chinese functionary response. Because, God forbid they should ever admit making a boneheaded mistake. From my (admittedly paltry) experience, it's not really a laugh-at-yourself sort of culture. They're practically French when it comes to taking themselves seriously.

That story, and that quote, just made me day.

Now, alas, back to dusting. Thanks, JP, for saying you'd like to help, and maybe next time one of us will be solvent enough to fly you out from New York to help.

I hasten to add that none of the stuff I have in my apartment is, in fact, worth anything. So don't rob me again.

So there was recently much remodeling in my house. I've talked about it, I'm happy with it, all is well. And I was not unaware that remodeling brings dust. I've been swatting at things with a dust towel as they become necessary, but I haven't made a concerted effort to really clean until now.

Oh. My. God. The DUST!

I was pretty blase about the dust situation -- I've got Swiffer sheets and Pledge Grab-It mitts. I'm prepared. How bad can it be?

So far the tally is three full Swiffer sheets and two Pledge mitts, front and back. And I haven't even made a dent.

I started with the kitchen. Basically, everything that wasn't in a cabinet is Dust Central. Tragically, I don't have much cabinet space. Much of my cooking gear -- cookie sheets, mixing bowls, cheese graters, vegetable drainers, cookie cutters, rolling pins, cooling racks, hand mixers, pitchers, serving bowls, the list goes on -- were on these great wire shelves I bought from Mary when she moved back to Jersey. I got them for a ridiculously low price, and almost felt a little guilty about it as I schlepped them away from Mary's apartment. Don't worry, Mary, I'm paying for them now.

So as it stands, I need to dust, then wash, pretty much everything in my kitchen. Then I have to dust again, to catch all the dust that was in the air when I was dusting. Then a last dusting to catch the post-dust dust. And this is one room. I'm doomed.

Did I mention that this house has a lot of vintage charm? I thought that was a good thing. What it means, however, is there is not one smooth surface or right angle in my entire dwelling. The walls are textured or stuccoed, perfect for shredding Swiffers. The molding and baseboards are intricately carved and notched. The floorboards are uneven and have small gaps between them -- not something you'd even notice if they hadn't suddenly become white with drywall dust.

And I have stuff, people. I have books. I have pictures. I have knick-knacks. I have a puppet from Indonesian; decorative bird and cricket cages from Hong Kong; gargoyles from Notre Dame; fuzzy wombats and echidnas from Australia; a wooden lizard from Mexico; baskets and servingware from the Philippines; my kick-ass hat from Mongolia; the teacups and wine glasses and Swedish glass bird from my grandmother's house; a wind-up penguin; desk toys; cat toys; computer stuff; cds; and more more more. I never realized I had so much god-forsaken stuff. And I have to dust it all. Right now. Jesus.

Surely there has to be a way around this, right? A miracle cure? Some handy-dandy product that will painlessly suck all the dust into a neat little (ok, huge) package I can lob into the dumpster? Hello? Anyone?

I'm doomed.

Argh. People drive me nuts sometimes.

NPR just ran a story on anti-abortion activists who are taking pictures of people walking into clinics where abortions are performed. Then they're posting those pictures on the net, as as sort of cyber scarlet letter.

My immediate reactions:

1) Do they have the people sign a release form? If not, can't they be sued for violating the right of privacy of private citizens?
2) Because these are private citizens. There is no presumption of the public's right to know if random chick from Nowheresville goes to the Planned Parenthood clinic.
3) It's no one's business.
4) It's not the same as publishing, say, pictures of men who are soliciting prostitutes. That's illegal, unless you're in Nevada. Abortion -- hell, women's health clinics! -- are legal in this country.
5) You feel one way about when life begins. I feel another way. You can't force me to agree with you, and I can't force you to agree with me. Stop trying to shame me into what I feel is a bogus moral position.
6) No one gets an abortion for fun. No one thinks "Hey, why don't I get a D&C today? Well, that or a manicure." It's probably one of the hardest decisions anyone can ever make. Why are you bent on making it that much more traumatic for someone?
7) If you are against abortion, fine. Don't have one.
8) If you want to help the unborn, be available to adopt unwanted children -- drug-addicted children, malnourished children, fetal-alcohol -syndrome children. Support women who choose to keep children, through supporting affordable health care and child care, etc.
9) If you want to eliminate abortions, support affordable, effective contraception. And plausible sex-ed in schools. (Abstinence-education alone isn't going to cut it.)
10) For that matter, hold boys and girls to the same standard when it comes to sex. Quit this "Girls who have sex are sluts/boys who have sex are cool" dichotomy. To hell with that. Tell your son to be responsible -- if he's going to be sexually active, make sure he's not even thinking about pulling that tired "like wearing a raincoat in the shower" complaint.

Look, I respect your opinion on abortion. I disagree with it. I won't force you, or your daughter, or your sister, to abort a pregnancy. Maybe I think that would be the best solution in some cases, but I won't force you to do it. Do me the favor of granting me the same respect.

I was a little -- ok, extremely -- freaked when my sister and her husband became born again. To me, that meant they'd immediately become rabid intolerant assholes. It didn't happen. They try to live exemplary lives, but that doesn't mean they spend all their time concentrating on what everyone else is doing wrong. We've talked about it -- they're anti-abortion but pro-choice. In other words, they would prefer it if abortions didn't happen, they would never have an abortion themselves, but they don't presume to tell me that I can't have one. I respect that. Why can't you photo-taking intolerant bigots grant me the same courtesy?

Ah, switching phone companies for money. It's capitalism at its best. I just sold myself to AT&T for $75. That's enough to cover my new Chicago vehicle sticker! Joy!

Well that was embarrassing. Somehow, I just set off the fire alarm. The fact that I did so by opening the back door when the burglar alarm was still on is disconcerting. The alarm people called and asked if I needed the fire department. I said no. They evidently didn't get to the fire department in time, as a whole truck full of fire-fighter hotties just pulled up, sirens howling. I was almost disappointed to send them away.

On the upside, the fire folks got here really fast. That's good.

Oh yeah, I'm sick today. *Cough, cough.*

Mutter mutter grumble harumph. Turns out my dental insurance only covers so much, and I exhausted it for the year. Multiple root canals will do that to you, I guess. So I owe my dentist a substantial chunk of change. Alas, I've also exhausted my flexible spending account for the year. Mutter mutter grumble harumph.

So what do you think is cheaper in the long run -- trying to preserve the teeth I have, or just yanking all the damn things now, so I no longer have to worry about it?

The US beat Portugal? South Korea beat Poland? Dammmmmmmmn, the World Cup is cool.

It's June 5 in Chicago. I swear I could see my breath as I waited for the bus. Harumph.

A sociological experiment someone should do (maybe me, when I've got time on my hands):

1) Assemble a group of two to five people in an area with tall buildings.
2) Have that group look up towards the top of a building, shading their eyes and pointing at a random spot.
3) Count how many people stop to look up at the same spot
4) Calculate how many people ask "What's up there?" vs. those who look but do not ask.
5) Calculate the average time passers-by will stare up at your random spot before giving up and walking away.

Someone may have been performing this experiment by my office when I went home tonight. However, there were two fire trucks (but no smoke) and a police car there as well, leading me to believe it was a legitimate... something. I couldn't figure out what. (I was one of the non-asking group.)

Looking for good, escapist fiction? Check out the DKA series by Joe Gores. I just finished 32 Cadillacs. Highly cool.

By the way, Amy, the stuff about Mongo is here, starting on May 19 (bottom of the page).

So I had another late night last night, courtesy of Sean. It was one of those parties where you're just sitting and drinking and talking to people and having a good time and all off a sudden you look at your watch and it's 1:30 a.m. Poing! Oops.

I had a great time and talked to a lot of very cool people, including a woman who may or may not have been hitting on me. It wouldn't have crossed my mind that she was hitting on me, except she said "I'm not hitting on you or anything." What is the correct response to that?

Met some friends for breakfast this morning, then stumbled back here. I talked with my sister Amy, who is a wonderful person and who I love dearly (Hi, Amy!) However, she occasionally flashes over to Therapist Girl. I mentioned I'd been out late last night and might take a nap. She got worried: "But you're not going to, are you?" Because taking a nap in the middle of the day = suicidal depression, not hangover and too little sleep. And don't you forget it!

You should have seen the diagnosis she gave me when she came to visit and saw how much of a ness my apartment was....