Our downstairs neighbor likes to smoke. Not a lot -- at least not a lot on his balcony. But it is a pastime he enjoys from time to time, kind of like Izzy's past-time of screaming and running through the apartment. Normally this is not an issue. We haven't noticed even the faintest bar-like smell to any of our clothes since we started line-drying them over 6 months ago, even though our drying racks are near permanent fixtures on our balcony. Therefore, when we were hanging our freshly laundered diapers on the drying rack next to other less freshly laundered diapers, we took no alarm when we smelled cigarette smoke curling up from the apartment below. Dear neighbor was having a cigarette and would be retreating to his TV and whatever else happens in his living room shortly.
Should have investigated further.
While attempting to take a short nap before I went to work we heard many, many voices outside just below our window. Dear neighbor has many friends it seems. Many friends who like to smoke and talk. We looked out to see billows of smoke rising peacefully from their balcony party -- it was almost like looking into the air above the orchestra after the 1812 Overture. Gag.
So we (John) carried the racks of clothes inside and as our luck would have it, our nice clean diapers smelled like we let them wander free in a bar pre-indoor-smoking-ban. Insert feeling of dread.
I honestly could tolerate the talking interrupting our sleep since we were in bed relatively early and aforementioned toddler will probably return the favor at 7am, compounding dear neighbor's hang over. However, the thought of having to wash ALL those otherwise clean diapers AGAIN made me want to scream. Or at least stuff dear neighbor's mailbox with smoking cessation flyers and pictures of lung cancers (yah, I know this won't work).
Sometimes living in an apartment simply sucks.