Caryn came into my office, waving my job description around, and she said, “You better be prepared to come down and explain what the hell you did here.”

I was with Beck. He started singing and I clung to him, then we ended up doing lines from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. I was screaming “What a dump!”; Beck was playing Richard Burton’s role.

I was involved in an incredibly complicated Technicolor Hitchcock film. I owned three large dogs and was close friends with an alcoholic elderly woman. When she was found murdered, I went with Mom and Dad to her home. The cops put my dogs in three-ring binders, then bags, and closed them up, saying that they could still breathe. Dad came down a hallway and said, “You don’t want to go in there.” I checked the binder and my dogs weren’t there. I went out on the deck and saw my parents standing around the elderly woman’s body. My dogs were barking. There was much more intrigue and confusion to the whole thing, perhaps an uncomfortable dinner party, but I can’t remember it.

I was chatting with some lady in my office, perhaps an applicant for my current position. Somehow we started talking about Maslow’s theory of self-actualization, and neither one of us could remember the name for the level below self-actualization, the level “Maslow himself really fit in,” according to me.

My apartment was looked over by a home inspector and I kept pointing out things that were like that when I moved in (particularly the faucets).

I’m debating a redesign of my site, but I know for sure that I will soon have a handy-dandy Celebrity Index. Let’s face it, there are probably about two people that read this (if that many) that actually know anyone I mention. I’m too lazy and it’s just too invasive to make a list of all those “common people” like myself. But if I, someone you in all likelihood have never even met, announce loudly at a fancy soiree, “I had the most horrifying dream about Lawrence Welk,” then you probably can at least be amused at my esoteric reference if nothing else.

So, this task involved going back through past entries–over 270 of them. I’ve done that, but in the course of doing so, I’ve noticed that I failed to put very crucial celebrity dreams in here.

How could I have forgotten to tell you about the one where my neighbor and I were double-dating Darryl Hall and John Oates (I with Oates, the dark-haired one; she with Hall). Of course, all I can remember is being not pleased with the whole situation (I didn’t want to date either of them) and I distracted myself from Oates’ amorous overtures by digging in the glove compartment. This dream would have taken place in spring 1996 or so, I’m guessing.

And how could I possibly have neglected to write about the marriage of Judith Light (Angela from Who’s the Boss) and Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails? That was a particularly disturbing dream.

By going back through the entries, including the ones from the 1990s, I had people I haven’t seen in years on my mind last night, I suppose. I dreamt that I started my new job. There was a large welcoming banquet (not all for me, mind you, as a whole lot of other people were starting work that day too). I found Chris J and Michael W, and I ran to Chris and tugged on his cream-colored cable-knit sweater (it was cotton, not wool, that cheap-ass bastard). “I thought about you all the way through Legally Blonde,” I lied, “and about how you never thought I’d ever amount to anything.” Michael, at this point, was quite scared and did not exactly want to be around the full display of the love-hate relationship we had. Chris, having shunned becoming a lawyer like his father, now carted around acetyline tanks. “Oh, how nice for you. I thought about dropping out of school to become a trucker, but I didn’t.” I put on my best better-than-thou routine, as usual, since Chris actually believes such nonsense. We then were to climb up a series of stairs: they stretched across an entire twelve-foot or larger expanse. They had slender rails, and it looked straight out of some Cocteau or film noir movie . . . perhaps The Third Man. At this point the dream turned into black and white. I can’t remember anything else, but it was damp, dark, and musty.

I dreamt that my grandfather had the most adorable pajamas with cows on them. (He’s a cattle rancher, so it’s very appropriate.) Instead of just being silly modern cows, they were realistic (much like a Remington or Russell painting) depictions of actual cow breeds. I pointed to his ankle and said, “I bet you never knew what a Jersey looked like before.” He smirked at my sarcastic remark.

I stared at a television screen, mystified by the moving pictures that continued though I had turned it off. I was most impressed by the picture of Richard Dawson in a sailor’s outfit.

Later on, I had a dream in which I discussed that previous dream. I became quite pleased with myself when I figured out that the television had a screen saver that came on when it was “turned off.” I told a friend about this revelation, and she didn’t care. She didn’t even care that I had dreamt about Richard Dawson: I was pleased that he could be added to my list of celebrity dreams. I was sitting on the table and she pushed off, then I ran after her into the street screaming, “I fucking hate you! I fucking hate you!”

Dr. Daugherty was having some sort of meeting at the Center after the movie. She was clicking through the gallery, and I immediately hid. I found Jake and told him that he was on his own this time.

Luckily though, I did not dream about Abe Vigoda.

In my dream last night, I accidentally ended up with Abe Vigoda’s dead body in my house and he had been beheaded. I didn’t do it. I carried his head over to my scanner and started to scan in a side view of his head; I thought about using it at the end of a web page as a design element. Then I realized that perhaps photographs of beheaded celebrities, particularly when their remains were still within my home, would not be a good thing to post on the web. My mother came over, wearing a 1950s Donna Reed dress, and wanted to go shopping for socks. The phone rang, she answered it, and it was for her: “Who would call you? It’s not as if you’re on the phone all that often and I’m already here, so it couldn’t be me calling.” I attempted to explain that I don’t particularly like talking on the phone just for kicks since I have to do it all day long. She hopped on the counter and chatted away like Elizabeth Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, not “sounding just like Natalie Wood, I swear,” as she claimed on the phone. I thought about telling Mom my problem–that nasty beheading incident–but I didn’t. I was wearing a green skirt and a blazer, white tights that were bunched at the knees, and uncomfortable shoes, but we had to leave that instant for some reason. So we went to lunch in the “Riverside area.” I told Mom the story of when Kathleen and I spent the night there and, since both Curtis and Fillmore streets were likely to flood, we had to eat at this little cafe. All of the items on the menu were standard: hamburger, roast beef, etc.

I was spending the night in a house in Fancy Acres, as Jake would say. I was tempted to go around and take pictures of everyone as they slept.