She said on Dec. 24, 2004, when she stepped off her trans-Atlantic flight from Teutonia that I should just give her three days, and she'd quit again. Well, folks, it's been over 2 months, and she's still puffing away.

She has become sneaky, that one.

She slides out of the apartment, unnoticed, and comes back with stories of the rampages of Ned and Bear and Raggedy-Ann, the neighborhood cats, hoping I won't notice the smoke stink muffled by the curiously strong stink of Altoids and antibacterial soap.

I'm SO serious.

Gross!

She's smoking, from my estimates, about 1/2 a pack a day.

My mother was just diagnosed with emphysema, so I'm so NOT COOL with this. Not having any addicitons, this is difficult for me to understand how when we're as broke as we are, she can afford to splurge on cigs when we need other stuff more. Of course, it is verboten for me to say anything. So I'm blogging, baby. Bloggin'.

Raf has pointed that out that I am picking up scientific traits. I collect statistics on her smoking. She doesn't approve, but is somewhat amused.