Vay-cay-shunz. I has them.

Today, in the spirit of doing nothing, I sat down on the couch with the Sierra Trading Post and Title Nine catalogs.

I woke up five hours later with a pair of cats on top of me.

I think I needed the sleep.

Now I have almost three full weeks stretching out in front of me, and plans on how to use it. Faithful Correspondent and Lotion Slut Pens is coming to visit in a couple of weeks, so before then, I'd like to:

1. Re-do my bedroom. I pulled the strangely-placed chair-rail down off of the awful panelled walls a couple of weeks ago and have done nothing since. Except buy paint. The bedroom gets painted, and I might even try to score a rug or two for the floor.

2. Paint the hallway, then paper it with ads from the sixteen tons of old magazines Beloved Sister sent. If anybody has any ideas on how to stick up a gazillion old, crumbly magazine ads, please leave them in the comments. I don't want to use frames and I'm not crazy about map pins, but it might come to that.

3. Glue the kitchen ceiling back into place. Don't ask.

4. Make a pilgrimage to IKEA. I've only been to IKEA once before, and practically needed a Xanax-and-cheddar casserole when I got out of there. I've learned that touring the show rooms is a bad idea; you end up with a million ideas for great things that you'll have no energy to look for in the flat-pack section. I'm going, this time, with a specific list of things to get: plastic boxes, wooden boxes, a round mirror, magazine holders, a rug, perhaps some fabric if it doesn't suck.

5. Defrost the damn refrigerator. I've been half-assing it for too long. That will involve borrowing a cooler or some freezer space from a neighbor, but that's okay; she's had my vacuum for two weeks now. She owes me.

6. Do something creative with the storage/laundry/workout room.

7. Finally, for once and for all, refinish my dresser. It's going to be white with green glass knobs from Anthropologie (don't hate me; they were on sale). It's bare wood now, and I hate it. I'll still hate it when it's done, but I'll hate it less, and the alternative that I love (a tall, narrow, six-drawer chest in natural elm) is $1,425 on sale.

In other news, eternal questions

Is every single psychiatry resident in the world weirder than a snake's suspenders, or am I seeing a nonrepresentative sample? I mean, I know Dr. Dink is strange; he's doing okay for just recently having emigrated to this planet, but I wasn't expecting the level of bizarre I get from the psych residents I'm seeing now. (They all have to do a neurosurgery and neurology round before they finish.)

These folks are *weird*. And I say that as one of the weirdest people I know. I popped off with a goofy quip to one of them the other day and was rewarded by nothing more than a subtle lip twitch and a sudden interest in the floor. Even the neurosurgeons, not the most well-adjusted bunch in the world, would've laughed.

As for what I'm doing once Pens gets here

If she hasn't seen an IKEA, I'll wait until she gets here to go. Otherwise, we'll either hit Barton Springs (pros: close, pleasant. Cons: lots of sorority girls in mid-August) or Turner Falls (pros: uncrowded in the middle of the week. Cons: I hear banjos. Paddle faster!), my pal Annama's shop that's full of gorgeous jewelry and fabrics from Lands Beyond, and a little gift shop in town that has the distinction of being the only place around you can find Anne Taintor magnets. We'll also be drinking rose on the deck and eating basil and mozzarella.

Speaking of rose

Faithful Correspondent Rockenheimer reveals that he's going to Montreal one of these fine days. I am sick, SICK with envy. Pal Joey is out of the city at the moment, or else I'd be showing up unnanounced on her doorstep, begging a place to sleep and braving her boyfriend's irritation. I love Montreal with an illogical passion; something about a city where old cathedrals are turned into apartment buildings really charms me. I love going to the Italian quarter and not being able to communicate with anybody in any of the four languages I speak badly.

Plus, it's still soft-fruit season there, while the heat here has killed everything useful or beautiful.

And, finally

I will be sitting around in the evenings, soaking my feet in the kiddie pool out back. That is what vacations are for.