Really, really dumb. Last week we had concrete poured and the weather was balmy, verging on hot. I had windows wide open to catch the breeze and laundry hanging on every clothesline. Then the guy came back to cut the concrete--put those little slits through the sections with a loud saw-like contraption.
Fun fact about concrete cutting: it kicks up a lot of dust.
A LOT of dust. My yard looked like this:
The difference is that people in Oklahoma in 1935 shut their windows and chinked the cracks with old newspapers and rags. I, on the other hand, did not. Nope, I left the whole house wide open to let in the fresh air.
As a result of my stupidity there's a fine layer of concrete dust settled upon every. single. surface. in this house. Baseboards. Corners. Books. Tables. Walls. Doors. My bare feet scrape in the grit on the floor and--I do not kid--you can see footprints where we walk across the wood floor.
Saturday the wind picked up and we watched the dust swirl around our front yard, kicking it up and resettling it in new spots. Mr. G played basketball and each bounce created a cloud of dust at his feet. I wiped off the kitchen counter several times during the day just to see it get covered up again with another layer of finely ground concrete particles.
Thank goodness it rained Saturday night and knocked some of the dust down. But I'm still moving from room to room with a microcloth wiping my tchotkes and window blinds. This stuff won't vaccum up, either. You've got to wipe it up by hand, one square foot at a time.
Later I learned that concrete dust is one of the worst things to inhale. I woudn't have guessed this of course, because the guy cutting it onle wore earphones for protection, though I realize a face mask would have interfered with the cigarette held between his lips.