The chronic malcontent may be a hothouse flower

My shrimpy maternal parental unit braves the wind, rain, and cold multiple times a day to indulge her nicotine habit. She likes being outside. She's like a wild animal, bundled in five layers of fleece. The bulky sweaters and jackets make her look bigger than she is. Her outer layer is an old red fleece zip-front jacket pockmarked with cigarette-ash craters. When she lights a cigarette, she shields the lighter in the crook of her arm. I asked her if she has ever set herself on fire. She said no. Ha. As if she would tell me if she had.

Yesterday I put on long johns under my wind pants and a second hat over my first hat so I could sit outside with her in the pitch black smoking area. The iron shelter covers two iron-backed chairs (which you have to navigate to mainly by feel) and offers no protection from the sweeping east wind. Mom doesn't seem to care. The need for nicotine outweighs her desire to be warm.

I told her I had been to see my doctor for a checkup. She didn't seem particularly interested so I didn't give her any details. Like how I discovered a blob of toothpaste on my shirt front when the medical assistant was taking my blood pressure. I didn't tell Mom how disconcerting it was to realize that (1) I don't look in the mirror anymore so things like toothpaste blobs go undetected, and (2) that my perceptions have narrowed to the point that I don't notice things like toothpaste blobs anymore. No use telling all that to my mother. She would just roll her eyes. Welcome to my world: Get over it. 

I may have mentioned, my neighbor to the south of me got a girlfriend. She's an enthusiastic, energetic creature. They have a sliding door in their bedroom closet (I'm guessing), and she seems to get a thrill out of opening and closing it. It sounds a bit like someone is sending a bowling ball down a really short alley. Then slam! The door hits the end with a bang. Then she does it again. I think she's probably getting dressed. You know how it is, girls and their closets. My closet has a door, but I don't bother closing it. Half the closet is taken up by two rolled up carpets, removed from my main living area last summer during an effort to reduce fleas and dust. I guess I should get rid of them. But where do I put them? This is the ongoing problem with stuff.

Anyway, I digress. My neighbors have a new noise. It started a week ago. I'm not sure what it is. It sounds like a cement mixer. Between 10 and 11 pm, every night, a rumble begins and doesn't end until morning. You know how a jet sounds when it is taking off from a runway? The Love Shack is about eight miles from the airport. When the windows are open, I can sometimes hear jets taking off and landing. It's a rumbling roar that lasts just a few seconds. Right. Like that. Except my neighbors rumbling roar doesn't stop.

The first night I heard the rumble, I was dumbfounded at how loud it was. The sound reverberated through the floorboards and walls of the entire Love Shack. I put my ear to the wall. Could it really be coming from their bedroom? Yep. How on earth could they sleep with that racket going on? I banged on the wall between our apartments. Of course, that accomplished nothing but sending the cat slinking under the couch.

Every night, the rumble commences around 11 pm news time. I'm aware of it as I watch the news, as I watch Stephen Colbert, as I watch HGTV. I can hear it in my bathroom while I'm taking my before-bed bath. I can't get any further away from it than my bathroom. I can hear it in my bedroom as I'm lying in bed, wishing the damn plane would just land already.

At first I thought it could be a treadmill or some other piece of exercise equipment. But who would run on a treadmill all night? I doubt they actually have a cement mixer in their bedroom, so I'm going to guess that it is some kind of heating device that has a rumbly forced-air motor and the contraption is sitting on the wooden floor. They turn it on to heat their bedroom, and they turn it off when they get up in the morning and go wherever it is they go during the day. The rumble is not present when I get up at my more leisurely hour. Sometime during my sleep cycle, the machine, if that is what it is, is switched off.

Am I a hothouse flower like my mother? I certainly wouldn't want my neighbors to freeze just to preserve my precious silence. Last night I practiced a new tactic: I blessed their relationship and wished them pleasant dreams. Oddly enough, my rage subsided. Funny how that works.