Posts (page 2)

Yesterday I hosted not one but two events. Why? Because I am crazy.

First, there was book club, which I hadn't read the book. Fortunately this is a "no-pressure" book club, so I wasn't tarred/feathered/drawn/quartered or even subject to a lashing. Instead I found that I really do want to read this book so I shall somehow procure it.

Then, there was CC and McGuyver's Wedding Shower. I literally ran out of food, which has never ever happened before, so I guess that is good --- people liked it. It was interesting to see how well people knew the bride and groom, via questionnaire. Yours truly didn't do so well, out of 28 questions I would've only got 16 right. Ali, however, got an impressive 22/28 :)

I have 5 weeks to finish the kilt. Fortunately, I'm in the cleanup-here-and-there bits. And the deck is looking fabulous. And it's sunny outside.... I've just been delivered an SC and shall go out to play...

"Why would anyone care if she did her laundry?"

-GH's mom, when hearing about my blog.

To be fair, or at least explanatory, my blog was described to her as my diary (which it is), public (which it is), where I divulge the most inane eccentricities of my life (which I do).

I live in the whitebread suburbia, edgy my life isn't.

About as edgy as it gets is if the Starbucks gal (or guy) gives me unwarranted 'tude, or if the Sammamish police elect to go back to Tully's (they used to haunt there), or if Mr. Wilkerson of 224th street discovered $10 of chewing gum missing from his house (I kid you not, aside from the street number and name, which are not so much to protect the innocent as my inability to remember stupid details, are EXACTLY what appeared in the police blotter.  Yes, someone reported chewing gum theft.)

I live in vanillaville.

I didn't want to. When I was growing up I yearned to be an Egyptologist or an Archaeologist or an Entymologist. I was going to have a doctorate, goddamit, and I was going to starve. Three years into college I had one of those epiphanies which are so self-satisfying and guilt inducing: I didn't want to go live on a fishing boat (my major, at the time, was gearing me toward marine biology) and if I did I would be most likely passed around as a bag of Oreos, attitude or not.

I married a Marine and discovered what vanillaville was: uniform houses, uniform outfits, uniform lives. But I didn't fit in by any stretch: I worked, I didn't want kids right away, I kept Jackson's Chamaelions, I knew how to cook and I knew how to drink. Social pariah, check. But I don't regret it to this day: the same gals who looked down their nose at me for not having kids and for working and for wanting (and actually)  to live off base were the ones who crowded the bar the day after, if not the day of, their husband shipping out. No, thank you.

So imagine my surprise finding, Doc Martens, jeans, spyderco and all, that I am living in virginal, innocent suburbia at 34 (nearly 35). I plan to be on the PTA, and while I will not be the only single mom (Oh, I hope not!) I guarantee you I'm the only one with no victim complex and with a fair collection of boots. I live somewhere where people report TO THE POLICE about their $10 chewing gum theft. Holy Shit, folks. On the scale of life, 1 to 10, as far as personal disaster, this rates about a -18 x10 to the 23rd. Though my life be cushy I recognize this. I also recognize that I am still in vanillaville -- a more Doc Martens friendly one, granted -- and I still don't fit in. Never have, never will, so far as I can see.

Still, I do blog about the mose basic of things. I cleaned bathrooms today, for example. I did a mountain of grocery shopping, thank you Safeway for pointing out that though I spent many times more than that I did in fact save $34. I blog about my laundry, not because I expect it to make any great ends to anyone reading this (but me). My laundry, and its state, do not concern you, do they? Do you need to know that I have been running without fabric softener for the last 2 loads, or that I have (indeed!) a system for my 3 baskets? No, you don't.

But *I* do. For the last 2-3 years (depending on which blog you're operating from) I've chronicled the most base and most acid of my life: the laundry and the dirty laundry, as it were. I go back and re-read, like my own personal Salon of Shame, that which I thought was so important back-when, and laugh (and cry) at myself. I marvel at the persistence of insecurities, the petty habits I try to break (and can't), the florid language and consitent type-os. I wonder at my recurring Vegas trips, like a lemming to the cliffs. I also worry (with slight alarm) at my continual use of analogy and how warped it is.

I'm not a scrap-booker -- I tried, I really tried -- and I'm not a journalist. I don't do composite photo frames (my stepmom does, so that's sorted as far as responsibility), I don't do keepsake ornaments; the only things I have of ongoing trust and preservation that are worth noting is a 150 year old German bible (oh, the irony) and a book of recipes which is the subject of its own paragraph in my will.

So yes, I blog about my laundry. I blog about how often I clean my toilets (honest, it's more often than I mention), my neuroses, my insecurities (well, most), my defeats, my successes, my irks, and my encounters. It's not edited, it's not polished, and it's not (really) for mass consumption, although it's offered therein. I am not seeking validation, a book deal, or even advice, although any and all -- minus the book deal -- are welcome. I blog for cheap therapy, I blog for my own needs, and I blog because it suits my sense of impishness.

And, because I really need someone to give me the lowdown on adding fabric softener to a 10 year old Maytag top loader. 

I spent the last 3 days in Portland, where I watched cars apply physics.

Small cars, skinny cars, cars which cost more than my mortgage. These cars ranged from a ton to more, and the color scheme was decidedly conservative: only a couple of red ones of the bunch. At alternate half-hours they raced around the Portland International Raceway, which is not the swell little oval you imagine most racetracks to be. So the knowledge that your boyfriend is hurtling himself at speeds that even yours truly cringes at around said non-oval track, shifting left and right, behind, in front, and in general in the vicinity of other drivers who confuse their paycheck with their driving ability.

I had the opportunity to watch a bunch of said cars whip around the wider of two curves, and watched as some nailed it and some were clearly braking too soon or too late. I watched as drivers got better with instruction, and worse with attitude. I watched as they served diet pepsi and oreos.

A racing day done, we went into town for dinner. Jakes, the ol' reliable, delivered and we proceeded to play our "who is whom" game; the patrons were kinda vanilla. There was one gal who was pretty and charming and darned if we had a hard time finding anything negative to say! I may have blouse envy. (NB: the Doc Marten's store did not, in fact, have my kickass grey ones that I really really really really want. Sigh).

The next time we go down we needs must stay another day.

GH commented that he appeared nowhere in my self-imposed rosary of terror for takeoff and landing, and so herein I now note that I should add that someone needs to take over being his girlfriend should I die in a fiery (or otherwise fatal) crash. Make it so. If it means getting him 3 or 4 girls to do individual things then that's fine, but he'll need a chief wife or something to ride herd on them.

Jest aside, I was listening to NPR this morning and they were talking to Richard Preston who had written a biography about one of the main Ebola Virus researchers. (Well, he wrote about quite a few things but the book is called Panic in Level 4 -- I want to buy it and I want to buy a Kindle and I think I'll be good instead -- and one of the substories is about two of the Ebola Virus researchers). Apparently once they figured out just how nasty Ebola could be, and after they started studying it in big protective suits and all that jazz, one of the researchers managed to get splashed with blood -- and via an opening in the suit got blood *in her suit*. Normally this would be very bad but what made it worse was that she had a cut on her hand.

Now, I imagine these suits are much like the dive gear I wear only moreso, so there are 'cutoffs' at your wrists and neck where you seal your hood and gloves. Much like showering in a drysuit, once you get out of containment you have to shower in your lil' space suit, and so she is spending the entire shower watching the blood rinse away from the outside of her suit, knowing full well there is blood on the *inside* of her suit, and knowing full well she has a cut on her hand from cooking dinner for her kids the night before. (After the shower she was able to remove the suit and remove the glove and discovered that none of the infected blood had made it into the glove).

The author actually spoke to the researcher in question -- yes, she's alive -- and asked her what was going through her head at that moment. She replied she was worried because she hadn't made it to the bank that day and who was going to pay the babysitter who was watching her kids? Her husband was on a business trip. Who was going to let him know what happened? Could he make it back in time? How was it going to be for the kids to grow up without a mom?

And there it hit me: although I've never been in such dire circumstances and I hardly think the turbulence of landing into Las Vegas rates, that's exactly the sort of panic and terror you get once you are responsible for someone else. You don't think about how it will feel as your bones shatter or as your organs melt or as the crash twists and mangles your body -- in most cases you're dead fairly quickly which is why the only actual death act I fear is drowning or torture -- it's the "what happens to everyone else" worries. My panic rosary is the same -- who will get all the things done that I get done, that need to be done? Obviously I'll be dead so I won't be able to worry about it *then*, so let's worry about it now, in my purported final moments.

It's this sort of rampant irrational thinking that gets me wondering about the inefficiencies of the human mind, and also why are we all built with different ideas of what's important? For example, it irritates the high holy shit out of me to be late -- ME, not other people. I can smile and laugh and enjoy and be happy as long as I am not late. Everyone else can be late -- but I cannot. It weirds me out and I'm not really sure why; but it really hit me on this last trip. We're in our room getting ready and my adrenaline is hiking up because I have like 4 minutes to get ready and meet everyone at the taxi stand and Alixito is like "hey it's ok if we're like 5 minutes late" and the first thing that went through my head was (and I think I even said it) "No, it's ok if YOU'RE 5 minutes late. I can't be late."

I must be pretty hot shit, to think that the world waiting on me for 5 minutes is tragedy to be unborne.

It's very weird. I know now and knew then that yes, I could be 5 or 10 or even 15 minutes (as we ended up being) late. The show went on, the restaurant was still there, the night was still had. But like a glass thermometer with mercury, I could feel the acid rising with each minute just knowing I was *going to be late*. The rational side of my brain takes a vacation in those instances.

As I get older this is getting worse and it's not helping that the body has decided to follow the brain's pursuit. I've managed to get anxious enough that people are *noticing* when my hands go grey, I've actually started having anxiety attacks where I start thinking "Ok, if I die in my sleep, who will notice quickly enough and have the presence to tell the SC his mommy is just sleeping? Will the dogs keep him out of the room? Will he be like those kids you see on TV who call 911? In short, how badly would that f*ck him up?" Again -- totally irrational, I have no heart troubles to speak of and work out regularly (even if in turn I eat and drink regularly which seems to balance out these days -- I gained a pound in Vegas). My last time diving I had a panic attack at 90 feet and it did not help to know that I can do a 60 foot CESA-- but not 90. I haven't dove since and I'm frankly scared to, but Q has promised to go puddle-paddling with me when I do.  

The theory of evolution is that characteristics are exacerbated and attuned over time because they either do not harm or in fact help the success of the species at large (not necessarily the individual). What use, then, to have anxiety to these levels? None of those situations is fight-or-flight, I lead a fairly cushy life. I know -- I *know* -- I've laid things out such that if I were to go bonk in the night, as it were, the SC is well taken care of both fiscally and socially. There is no use for this, and I simply hate waste.  

This was definitely in the top 3 of my all time favorite Vegas trips, and if you consider that, since turning 21, I've averaged 3 trips a year, that's saying something.
(I'm 34, so 34-21=13 years x 3 trips = 39 trips)**. I maintain that it's largely the company that makes a trip.

We landed in Vegas on Friday afternoon, grabbed a cab and created our Vegas Indian Names. CC was "Runs with Scissors", Cyn was "Plays Well with Others", T was "A Pleasure to Have In Class", and I was "Eats Paste". (I chose it). Alixito joined us later and became "Shows Panties", Ali was "Very Energetic", and Christine was "Very Creative". And so the adventure began.
At 7pm we found ourselves at Firefly Tapas, which was most excellent, and naturally what with the mojitos and malbec pouring freely came into a game of "truth or dare" without the "dare"... Adventures In Overshare, indeed. Post tapas we went to LAX (formerly RA) at the Luxor, whose decor has not changed since 1985 (there's something comforting about that in Las Vegas), and waited in line.

Where we met Gerald.

Gerald works for the History Channel in LA piecing together archaeological specials. Gerald is about six feet tall and has blue eyes and slightly longish hair and was a pleasure to be around. Gerald got one of us in to LAX without a cover (OMG $20 cover what gives???) and then proceeded to buy us a round in honor of CC's upcoming Nupping. Well, actually he handed me a $100 bill and asked me, since I was headed to the bar before him, to get "whatever my friends wanted" and a Maker's Mark for him. I had 7 friends with me. We very much liked Gerald. Gerald was in town for a friends' wedding at 4pm the next day (including Elvis) and couldn't sleep and was very glad to have some non-Barbie thinking company. Gerald very much liked us.

Drinks achieved, we made a little aerie closeish to the DJ's and proceeded to do that slight swaying bounce one does in dance clubs when you can't actually dance because people are feeling your ass either purposefully or inadvertently. Sardines and pickles have more room than the bodies in that club (tastefully appointed with red velvet walls and lots of candles and pretty people). After about an hour we hit our limit of everything (except Gerald, who was still cool) and gracefully (if not forcefully) exited LAX. Gerald followed a bit and then we split into groups... those continuing the party (post 2am) and those heading in (it was 2am, yo!). Yours truly is an old broad and elected to get some sleep. Others who shall rename nameless showed up in their rooms at 8am and 11am the next morning (oh, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!)

Saturday morning found us blissfully un-hungover (well, most of us) and at the spa where a gal named Megan did all kinds of wonderful things to me with massage oil (no, just massage) and I got an eye brightening treatment which was a challenge ("Now once I apply the eye masque you can't open your eyes for 5 minutes" -- never in my life did I want to open my eyes more.) Refreshed, relaxed, and bright, we packed up and headed to the Forum Shops. CC and I walked and enjoyed the Vegas sun, collected Hooker Trading Cards for McGuyver and I got The Rack complemented twice (which is always nice). Look, there isn't much I can do to hide it and it was 90 plus degrees out, and besides I outmass and outclass most of the choadlies who do more than oogle. If you're gonna say something about it, as long as you say something nice, I'll let you live.

The Forum Shops are probably my favorite place to get my girlie on, because I don't normally, and where else can you go to Jimmy Choo and Ferragamo and Kate Spade and (my personal favorite) the Huge Victorias' Secret Store. Three times the size of a 'normal' one and crammed with all things girlie, we meandered amongst bras that ranged from 0.002 oz of fabric to ones that probably came with a hydraulic lift built-in given the size and structure. There was a sale and a woman with way too much makeup and not enough clothing asked if I wanted to apply for an Angels card because if I did I could buy more underwear with hydraulic lifts and probably ceramic brakes (for the panties, I suppose) and so I did and scored a tote bag emblazoned with the VSC logo and touched off in hot pink patent leather. It will match my Docs I'm sure. I also went to the Lucky Jeans store and purchased my Most Expensive Pair of Jeans Ever but they made my ass look like Salma Hyek's, not Roseann Barr's, so they're well worth it.

Then it was off to the Star Trek Adventure, where Alixito, Cyn, CC and myself split appetizers and a Warp Core Breach. Well, Alixito and Cyn went back to the hotel a bit early so 4 girls split 1/2 of a Breach and 2 girls split the last 1/2. I do not recommend going on the rides right afterwards ('course, we did) and I do recommend if you have time to do the full-on experience (we didn't have time). Back to the hotel to get tarted up a bit for dinner at Benihana and then the "Topless Review" (when did they stop calling them "Tittie Shows"?) Bite at the Stratosphere. I'm still not sure what to make of it. It was cheesy like a porn but had some ballet and jazz moments, some aerial acrobats (the sort that play with long wisps of fabric and twine themself about it in various ways and then drop and climb to the music) and some weird guy with cool contacts and long frizzy hair. Let's put it this way: I'm glad I went, I got my money's worth, and I will probably go to one again (just not that one).

By then it was nearly midnight and this little turnip was tired, and cranky, and my feet hurt from my Hoochie Mama shoes, so I packed in (again, earlier of the bunch) for the night (I literally packed first).

This was good as somehow Alixito and I blew through the alarm and woke up with about 20 minutes to finish packing, shower, get ready, check out, and meet for coffee.

And so here I sit, in 24A, Flight 601, heading home. I have acquired things for Me and things for GH and things for the SC and I gambled naught but $7, and can honestly say that although I am poorer in the pocket I have quite a bit (in respect to experience and product) to show for it.

My next trip there is in December (work, and then possibly play)... Viva Las Vegas!

**So this got me thinking about which hotels I've stayed at and how often. If memory serves, I have stayed at the Golden Nugget three times, the Luxor at least 8 (X and I used to drive out from San Diego on a regularish basis), the Excalibur (twice), Circus Circus, the Tropicana, the MGM, the Mirage (twice), Treasure Island (twice), the Riviera, the Hilton (4 times), the NYNY (twice), the Flamingo Hilton (once), the La Quinta, the Embassy Suites (twice), the Travelodge (worst ever), the Hard Rock, the Monte Carlo (twice), and the Aladdin (once). I think I'm missing a few occasions, but of all places Las Vegas is the most likely candidate for that sort of amnesia.

Yesterday I didn't work but somehow had way too much to do. I got to sleep in... as much as my body would let me (about 8am) and then proceeded to launder, pack, make breakfast, check in with work, shower, change, futz with some papers, grab the male person and head off to Fred Myer.
Where I got a new purse.
I really didn't intend to -- I'm trying to be good -- but as the other purse I was using was too "I went on vacation in Mexico and all I brought back was this purse" (complete with fringe) it was time to bite the bullet and get something a little more versatile. Yes, standard black.
GH and I quested for the perfect laundry basket, which I'm told must have some sort of an indentation for hips. Why he needs a laundry basket with indentation is beyond me, as the man has no hips, but nevertheless the quest took us to Fred Myer and there it failed, for the Myer had only 3 or 4 baskets none of which had indentation.
Then I got to reorganize his pantry, fridge, and freezer, and completely make him lose track of everything. There's a "system", to be sure, but it's intuitive to me so we had to do some negotiated restructuring. My fears for his epicurial health continue while I'm gone, as the man owns more cans of French Onion soup than can possibly be healthy.
Yes, gone.
I am currently on a plane.
The plane is going to Vegas. I sit in seat 25F, which is next to 25D (mercifully 25E seems to not have made it to their flight). 25D is occupied by Cyn, 25C is occupied by CC, 25B must be lost with 25E, and 25A is occupied by Teri. In short, we have a whole row to ourselves. We were chided by the flight attendant dude before we even took off, which bodes well, I think.
Speaking of which, I really really really really hate flying. I had a couple of mimosas with CC at breakfast and they don't seem to have done much, because I did that little nervous wreck trail of thought I do at every takeoff (and landing, and bump of turbulence): Ok, I have enough insurance to pay off the mortgage, my student loan, the SC's tuition for MIT, and his living expenses plus a little extra for the next 20 years. His father is a good guy and my will will make sure he gets what he needs and my family has extended contact. Sure, I won't have finished the kilt for CC and McGuyv's wedding but the'll be able to rent one at worst and since the extra fabric is at home they can get another one made. Q will take the dogs so I know they're good. Work will just have to deal and they will be aghast when they see how I code stuff. I really wish I had cleaned less and played more.
Naturally, this gets amended depending on whether or not the kilt is with me (it is), the SC is with me (he isn't), work is stressing me (always), and if Q is watching the dogs already (he is). It's stupid, I know, especially in view of how many times I get on a plane in a given year and the relative odds of something untoward happening. Like any statistician, though, I can make figures lie and liars figure, so I don't really truck with that whole "you're more likely to get into an auto accident than a plane wreck" school of thought. Bottom line, your ticket punches you when the time comes and there's not much choice.
Which is a very depressing state of mind to be going on a 'chette party.
However, I did prefunk last night with Alixito and Velly Good Looking (who sashays beautifully, by the bye) at The Local Vine. Good wine, good food, good company, and fascinating conversation. Even with a zoology degree I learned new things after listening to VGL. The setting was ripe for the "Who Are They/What Do They Do" game that GH and I like to play but most unfortunately (or fortunately?) the current company kept conversation crackin' (don'tcha love alliteration?) without it. NB: I still have horrible gaydar, and the squash soup/cheese sandwich entree is filling and yummy. Also, Two Hands wine :) Yum!
PS - Target doesn't seem to have laundry baskets with indentations either, anyone have a bead on those?
PPS - I really really need to dye my hair because the grey one I plucked out today was at least 6" long (real inches, not female engineer inches). Disturbing.
P(3)S - Good luck to Greenie and Greenie's husband as Kermit is due to arrive today! I still say Kermit is the name of an 8th Century Persian warrior and I suspect someone can help me prove it!

I have a bruise on my left arm about 2" wide and 1" long, and it's that deep greeny purple. I didn't notice it in the shower, I didn't notice it getting dressed (short sleeve shirt), I didn't notice it until someone at work said "Jeeesus what did you do?"

There are many problems with this. First, and not the least, I am not Jesus. I mean, yes I have long brown hair and yes I am known to expound words of wisdom and yes I think the water to wine thing is a fantastic party trick, but then I'd suffer from not believing in me so I am not Jesus.

Second, in order for me to bruise myself in that particular spot I would have had to run headlong into something, which requires intention, and I am not stupid. Oh, I act stupid all the time -- it gets me out of 'real' work -- but I am not actually stupid. Somewhere I have a piece of paper that tells me so.

Third, the fact that I didn't notice this while bathing, dressing, or running around... and that almost certainly my son's teachers, assorted other parents, etc. saw me sporting said shiner ... is disturbing. On the level of my obtuseness and then on the whole level of "what if I was an abused person and this was my cry for help and..." Oh who am I kidding, I am 5'10" and weigh more than the average male my size, and pack the attitude of a small man. So I don't think I have to worry about the "cry for help".

However, I did get tired of answering, "I don't know, it just arrived there, it looks a lot worse than it is" and started telling people that it's how I know my bf loves me. At least the people I know will take it in the spirit its intended. If GH gets arrested today it will piss me off.

I shouldn't have bet on the weather as yesterday it rained and rained and rained. 26 each 5 year olds plus 2 teachers plus assorted parentage plus one Woodland Park Zoo = damp goodness had by all. We ate in front of the monkeys, which was only a little odd.

Last night we celebrated P-Ade's bday at my house, complete with 28 candles on a brownie ('twas a big brownie). At any minute the fire alarm was going to go off in my house. The SC chided me for calling P-Ade old, but then agreed that he was much older than me (for the record, I'm 34 and P-Ade is 28, so I am all for him appearing older than me). That took away like 50 ma'ams right there. I think I'll go roll a 20 sided dice as a multiplier, even.

And as of today I'm just wagering things all over the place. I have a private bet with P-Ade, which is one of those win-win things because either way we're going out, and then I have a bet again with A and B and now K over... First Solar, Inc. (FSLR). It's two stage, $20 for end of June and $20 for end of July:

• A: betting July only, says end of July it will be between $230 and 240
• B: betting end of June $230.01-$240.01, end of July $210-220
• K: (K picked the stock and he's a bear) betting end of June $290, end of July $319
• and the Divine Divorcee, Minor Diety in Training picked $220-230 end of June, $190-200 end of July.

I am clearly the most bearish and intend to be, in the news FSLR's top chiefs have been selling off their shares like nobody's business. I don't care how good the pre-IPO was, you don't sell if you have any sort of confidence. I actually think it will be less than my figures. But, worst case scenario I'm out $40, best I'm up $120.

With that sort of wager on the table I think I shall keep my blackjack time in Vegas this weekend to a minimum (yes, V-land: CC is having her 'chette party and I am going to make sure the bride returns from Vegas. Tomorrow I pack my hoochie mama sandals and the corset.)

Let the games begin...

Here I am at work, back to the grind, blissfully not in Dallas. Sure, there's a pile of to-do's for Monday, although not as bad as one would think. All of this plus the fact that I am only working 3 days this week :)

My semi-scientific study on Facebook has entered the realm of combinations now -- I was first Single, and then nothing, then I was Interested, and now I'm Single and Interested. We shall see if the choads come out. Or perhaps my pic is not choad-bait, so I may put up one of my dominatrix ones.

Speaking of the black corset, I may have more than one occasion to wear it coming up soon! First, I'm going to Vegas. Yes, again. Look, I end up going 2 or 3 times a year so this isn't news to anyone, but this time it's for a bachelorette party and I seriously suspect there will be at least one evening of pleasant debauchery. However, the corset requires someone to tuck and yank and squish for me, as it straps in the back, so we shall see. The second occasion will be for the Seattle local bachelorette party, which will be at a bulesque show in West Seattle. The dress code is "lingere, pyjamas, or to the 9's". I will have to seriously regulate my alcohol intake that evening, though, because I am diving with Q the next morning. First time diving since September of last year, so it's kinda a big deal. I think we'll start small with Cove 2 and if I get more adventurous we can plan a Keystone trip.

But meanwhile I sit here, running code and planning an agenda for a meeting on Wednesday -- for tomorrow I'm going to be mommy at the Zoo :) I am so glad to be home...

A thousand apologies for abusing the Beastie Boys' song. But I am crafty, or at least I aspire to it.

Once the kilt is done -- last pleat sewn, so at this point it's finishing up stuff -- I want to build a chicken coop and a potting bench and cupboard and reorganize my garage and paint a couple of rooms and possibly start in on the reflooring of rooms and redo mouldings.

I haven't the time or money or energy, really, at this point. It just muddles about my head aching to be done or at least started.