Chemical Warfare

So, we have these neighbors downstairs who are really heavy smokers. I'm pretty sure they do it for a living, with lots of overtime, because I actually only ever see one of them with any regularity. There's four of them, and the only reason we know that is because Bobby saw the other three move in. Four adults, squashed in there like sardines. It's a pretty sketchy situation.
Anyway, they're heavy smokers. We've been having some trouble with their cigarette (and cigar) smoke creeping up into our home, and making it smell.
We used to have problems with them playing really loud music with a lot of base, so it was like a giant, irregular, heartbeat coming through the floor and filling our home with "thump thump thumpty-thump-thump." (psychological warfare?) We talked to them (which had no permanant effect), and then complained through the association to the homeowners (yep, these guys are renters. Who would rent to these people?! Relatives.) That had a more lasting effect.
But now there's this smoke, and while there are rules about noise and music, there are apparently no rules about smoking so much that it fills your upstairs neighbors home.
Well, the whole thing came to a head last weekend, when from Saturday to Monday they locked themselves up and did nothing but smoke pot. As rank as the regular tobacco smoke was, it was nothing to the absolute vileness of the marijuana smoke. I had every fan in the condo running, our sliding glass door open, trying to get rid of it. It was so bad, when I got home from church on Sunday, as soon as I opened the door the smell wafted out. It was as if they were in our home smoking. If a cop had come over to our house, I wouldn't have know what to say.
I kept trying to figure out what I could do. Bobby said the homeowners association would have to make a rule and vote on it before we could complain through them, and he said the cops couldn't do anything unless there was some other law they were breaking (i.e. selling pot, torturing bunnies) because smoking pot was only a secondary offense (the guy watches a few episodes of Dragnet and suddenly thinks he's an expert. No, I'm kidding. Sort of.)
By Monday afternoon, I was so nauseated, and so worried about Mabel (inhaling second hand pot smoke can't be good), and so dang furious, I called the police station, to see if there was anything they could do. I had given them all of the neighbors' information and all of mine before I realized she was sending officers (I guess to inform them of the complaint?) I was like, "Err, can I be anonymous?" which is precious little good, because I'm pretty sure they've got a fair idea who complained.
Anyway, when Bobby got home he said he saw a couple of cops in the parking lot, so I guess they did their duty. And our condo smelled okay for the rest of the day.
But yesterday, it was like they decided to "get even" by smoking as much as humanly possible. They must have smoked ten thousand cigarettes from dawn to dusk to dawn, which must have cost them a lot of money. And the house stunk, although it was not as bad as the marijuana smell. I told Bobby, they can't afford to do this too often; it's too expensive, and they aren't exactly rolling in the dough.
Sure enough, the next day: today, our home has smelled fine. They must have spent a week's worth of cigarette money yesterday (and disabled their smoke alarms). It is, in it's way, the stupidest kind of revenge--the quintessential "biting your nose to spite your face." Really, you spend a bunch of money to get yourself that much closer to lung cancer and a miserable death, so you can stick it to the upstairs neighbors with a one-year-old kid. Obviously it's that kind of brainpower that gets you living like a cockroach in your own filth, holed up with three other cockroaches, pouring all the money you have into Painful Death stock.
Was that a rant?

Chuck Norris sleeps with a pillow under his gun. I don't sleep at all.

Well, it was pointed out to me that it's difficult to stalk me properly if I don't update my blog (at least, that's not what was said, but that was the general message I got. Can someone say 'lost in translation'?)

Here's a little of what's going on:

I'm trying to get back into running. After I ran the Green River marathon last June, I got a little overenthusiastic and tried to go right into training for another one. Of course, I injured my knee, and between that and the winter weather (and Mabel refusing to keep blanket, hat, and gloves on) I've been doing indoor aerobics. But no namby-pamby indoor aerobics can whip me into shape like running does, and I'm finding it a lot harder to switch from aerobics to running than it was to switch from running to aerobics. But I've set my sights on one last running hurrah. Mabel is going on 19 months, and it's about time I thought about having another baby, but first I have some cancer screening tests that need to be run over the next couple of months (a precaution because of my family history), so I've decided--for those two months--to train for another half-marathon. Not a final one, just a final one until after I have the next baby. I have a month before I need to register for the race, so I figure by then I'll have a good idea how training is going, and if I'll be up to racing. Fingers crossed.

Bobby, on the other hand, will not be training for any marathons anytime soon, half or otherwise. He pinched his sciatic nerve nearly two months ago, and despite much time at the chiropractor and physical therapist, it's just not better. The doctor is sending him in for an MRI and then referring him to an orthopedist. Despite this, Bobby applied for, and received, an new position in Boeing. It's a lateral move, not a promotion, but it will beef up his resume. He will be working at the big Renton 737 factory, which is about 2 or 3 miles from where he's working now, so we're not moving or anything. It will mean he won't be able to come home for lunch anymore (as we know, in the Seattle area, 2 miles amounts to 20 more minutes of driving time. How I wish I were kidding.)

Mabel is large and in charge. I don't know if I've been too indulgent (or lazy) in how I've brought her up so far, or if it's just the personality she was endowed with, but she has an authoritative command, and does not like to be questioned or contradicted. She is not talking yet, so her displeasure and frustration are generally expressed with a long yell of AAAAHHHHH! in my face. But she's so fun. She loves the church Nursery (so do I--I've been in there a year now), playing at the park, coloring in her coloring books (and on everything else before we catch her), reading, and bullying us into giving her junk food (i.e. AAAAHHHHH!) Also playing on our bed, as is shown in the above picture.

She can sign quite a few words; some are more helpful than others (you want a cracker? oh, you want a dinosaur! I can't help you.) She is absolutely the cutest little dickens ever, and we're having a ball with her.

And I can't think of anything else. This is the real reason I don't blog much; there's apparently not much to say. I'm tired and should get to bed. My doctor put me on a low dose of an anti-anxiety medication--the latest effort to combat my insomnia. I'll give it some time, but so far I think it's just making me wake up earlier; I don't actually get to sleep any sooner, even though I'm plenty tired (but not sleepy. I can't wind down.) Maybe some people just weren't meant to sleep. Like Chuck Norris. He doesn't sleep. He waits...

And on that note, farewell.