Peter Bogdanovich's cats

I think I might try writing a short story with that title. It would probably have little or nothing to do with his cats, but it's a pretty neat title, anyway.

But his cats were the least of my problems in the last couple of days. For starters, my mother is still not doing all that well. Of course, today my stepfather was supposed to call their primary doctor and see about getting her taken better care of, but I haven't heard yet how that went. I presume, since I haven't heard, that she's not back in the hospital, which is good, I suppose, although I liked how she was being taken care of, finally.

Anyway, yesterday I went to Macys and spent an inordinate amount of money on new panties. The sock selection was pathetic, so I may have to go to Target soon. I also still need a new pair of sandals, since my old ones finally gave up the ghost last summer. Hey, they were at least a decade old, so, again, I got my money's worth.

But while I was out, my upstairs neighbor's apartment was broken into. This was upsetting, in part because I'm not 100% sure that it was while I was out, though it's likely that I was. I (and my neighbor) both got precious little sleep last night, though I did manage to put four hours together, along with some pretty intense dreaming. One part included Patrick Stewart, can't complain about that. In the dream, I asked him if he'd heard his song and, when he said no, I made him give me his email address. He had to use a paper cup and I whipped out, what else, a purple pen for him to write with.

Then I was going on a cruise. There was a pre-boarding party the night before and there was a lot of food there, but I wasn't interested in any of it at first (despite the fact that I'd gone to bed feeling hungry, but not feeling like eating anything--or, rather, not feeling like making anything to eat). Then a conga line started and I was bemused/appalled and I berated the leader of the line, I think for being so prosaic and corny--and then I joined the line. After a bit of dancing about, suddenly the food being served looked really good and I tried to get some, but after some abortive attempts, with the food becoming more and more disgusting (sausages that had been dropped on the floor? Ugh!), I woke up... probably because the phone rang. It was sort of like how you're not supposed to dream your own death, you wake up first--this was like that.

I am not going to analyze this dream, you're all free to do, if you so choose. (All-ha! I think there's maybe one of you reading this, if that.)

Anyway, I should go out and buy some window alarms and perhaps finally replace the shade in the kitchen. Some more stuff to spend my pittance on, but it will be good to not be scared to come home when I know the house is empty or to go to sleep.

Perchance to dream. Of Peter Bogdanovich's cats.