I’ve always been a bit of a night person. It started in college when I would stay up all hours of the night — doing homework. Or something.

I’ve gone back and forth between day jobs and night jobs since then. My current job sees me leave work around 2 in the morning. I go home, putz around on the Internet, have something to eat, drink some coffee and finally head to bed around 5.

Some nights, though, I feel like being productive. Such was the case Sunday night as I sat in my new kitchen and stared at the walls in disgust. That wallpaper was the ugliest thing ever.

I say “was” because at 2:30 Monday morning (to me it’s still Sunday night, though), I got out a step stool and started peeling wallpaper. I only intended to do a corner as a test — to see how easily the wallpaper came down. To my delight, it peeled off the wall quite easily. The problem with that, though, was that I just kept peeling. Instead of doing a corner, I did three whole walls and part of a fourth. By the time you read this, all that horrible wallpaper will be down. And some time next week, I’ll consider painting.

Every day I add items to my to-do list. Most days I mark items off my to-do list. Some days I even do those tasks before marking them done.

The new apartment means a constantly evolving to do list. As soon as I accomplish one task, it occurs to me that two others need done. I should name my to-do list Hydra.

One of the myriad problems that comes with being a night person is that many of the things on my to-do list simply can’t be done at night. Sure, I can do dishes and laundry, but I can’t really hang the shelves that I need to. And I’m pretty sure my downstairs neighbor might be a touch upset if I vacuumed. I can shop for groceries, but banking at 4 in the morning doesn’t work so well.

I met another neighbor on Sunday. He was doing some spring cleaning and I took the opportunity to go say “hi.” I introduced myself the same way I always do: “Scott.” We talked for a bit and then he glanced at my license plate. For those who don’t know, it says “LEFFLER.”

My neighbor turns to me and says, “There used to be a Scott Leffler.”

I love the way he phrased it. “There used to be …” Of course, I told him there still is and I am, in fact, the same Scott Leffler that used to be. As it turns out, he knows my name from my radio days. Also, I know his daughter. That happens a lot — both the radio thing and the daughter thing.

But not to worry dads, I’m not looking. I’m pretty content with my girlfriend — who at 4 o’clock Monday morning was dying her hair.