Last weekend, Lenny organized the garage, cleaned out the gutters, trimmed the wisteria, and hauled a cedar chest upstairs. We bought curtains to hide the laundry room, removed all the detritus from on top of the dryer, and cut the grass.

Yesterday I checked my e-mail, wrote reports for my other job, made some phone calls, did some banking, dropped off packages at FedEx and the Post Office, dashed to Bartell and QFC, took a nap, then made dinner. Later we watched TV, started the dishwasher, and went to bed.

I have company coming in a few days, so I still need to change all the beds, clean toilets, and vacuum. Oh, yes, and it’s my deadline day for this column. While I’m writing, I’m mentally taking stock of the pantry to plan dinners. This is my real life, a typical few days. And you know what? Most of it is boring.

Now, I am neither boring nor bored, but this is my routine: doing all the things that need to be done so that I can get a few paychecks. And when my head hits the pillow, I can sleep without worry. For the life of me, I can’t imagine that any of this, except hopefully my column, is even slightly interesting to anyone else.

When I was an adolescent and a teen, I always had a feeling that someone was watching me. Now before you launch into judgments about the soundness of my mind, I should tell you that someone was watching me. My mother’s parents lived in the house next-door, and each had a keen eye for their grandchildren. It was nice to move away from home, and shake that feeling. That is why I don’t understand Twitter.

For those who don’t know about Twitter, let me give you the quick version. You sign up online for the free service, then you can “follow” people, and they can “follow” you. It’s done on the computer or by texting from your phone the answer to the question, “What are you doing right now?” I understand why this would be cool for my son the musician. He occasionally hangs out with famous people, and by twittering about it, he could gather what everyone in show business wants: a following.

But I don’t see that there is any reason for me to send “Tweets” about my mundane life, nor read that someone else is eating a cheeseburger. It seems a bit narcissistic, and it could be just another black hole that can swallow up my most valuable commodity: time.

A very wise editor once gave me some advice: “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that everything that happens to you is interesting.” Amen, and amen.