The Seventeen Billion Dollar Question

I am mystified. You all know that is a rare and unique statement for me to make. But let me make myself perfectly clear: I am mystified by a single, inexplicable and sustained occurrence, the sounds emitted by my upstairs neighbor. Today I lay on my new couch, not feeling 100% I might add, and for well over 90 minutes, I found myself gazing up at the ceiling, pondering at length what in god's name she is DOING up there? Now mind you, she is not particularly loud, but I could not explain these noises if someone were to offer me 17 billion dollars. Really. I know her from driving the town bus, and she seems to be a completely normal middle-aged woman who likes to visit Big Island and appreciates my sense of timing when paging the bus to make the extra "East End" loop from Town Park.

For the sake of argument, let's just say that someone immensely wealthy actually did offer me 17 billion dollars and in return I had to describe what she was doing to make such a bizarre assortment of multilayered sounds from 3:17 to 4:43 today (or any day for that matter). This would be my best guess:

She approaches her front door with a chain around her waist dragging 3 studded snow tires across a slate sidewalk. As she opens the door, she drops a key chain consisting of 72 rusted keys in their locks, at which time her obese dog springs forth from one of the tires and begins to convulse on the floor. The floor is made of a glass. As she steps over her epileptic beast, she releases the snow tires and dons a pair of silver toed jazz tap shoes that fit her hooves like satin gloves. Tapping her way to a hot tub full of gurgling hot oil, she turns the jets up to number 11, and simultaneously starts an industrial strength fan to whisk away the offensive fumes. Now that Zeus has slipped into a deep, dark slumber, she drags him by his studded collar clear across that glassy floor and neatly deposits him in a slobbery heap atop a small pile of two-by-fours, where he dreams in fits and starts for the next 30 minutes. Then it's tip-tap back to the hot tub, and now turned off, she cannonballs into its murky depths. Exactly 14 seconds of silence prevail before she heaves herself over the side and spontaneously begins to rearrange all 3 pieces of her wrought-iron furniture. Still on the glassine flooring. The fan is suddenly silenced and that precious space in time is immediately overtaken by the sounds of her taking all her silverware and cooking utensils and in one swift yet interminable moment, sweeping them into a deep metal basin. Zeus now rousts himself and, hind legs not yet functioning, proceeds to drag himself, slowly, inexorably, all the way to the front door where he feebly claws for immediate release.

If there is anyone out there reading this who both possesses 17 billion dollars and thinks I may be remotely accurate in my assessment, I can give you my banking information, as direct deposit is far easier than writing a check these days. And if that is not what is going on at 920 East Columbia, then I ask again, mystified, "What is she DOING up there?"