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Yesterday in aquafit as I was splishing and splashing my way to a healthier me — or so I’d like to believe — two, not one but two, of my favourite dream songs from my youth came on. I was a pretty innocent and shy teenager — translated: NO boyfriends — so my romantic longings usually came from listening to Francie’s 45 rpm records. She lived next door and wore really short shorts and I thought she was very sexy and mature and quite wild for a 17-year old. She’d let me come over and play her records or maybe I was there babysitting for one of her younger siblings. I don’t remember but what I do remember is that’s where I first fell in love with the Everly Brothers singing All I Have to Do Is Dream and every other song they sang just to me. It was also where I first heard Bobby Darren crooning Dream Lover although, just to keep things clear here, he never became a heart throb for meSo, yesterday, in the pool when Sheila played those songs while she gave us yet another gruelling exercise to do, I was right back there in that house dreaming my life away. It’s funny how certain songs or smells or sounds take you right back to a place that you haven’t been to for decades

Also, I especially took note of these dream songs yesterday because I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams lately. Maybe because I’ve been having some humdinger ones of late. In one, I was being courted by a cult run by an old neighbour of mine. It was like their annual meeting and they were waiting for a space ship to pick them up since they were under siege by a mob of radical Christians including the Pope who was riding an elephant. Needless to say, I didn’t join but forced myself to wake up.  I figured that dream and a few other I’ve had were triggered by the herbal This-Will-Help-You-Sleep pills that my friend, Daniel, at the health food store recommended. They seemed to do the trick but then I started to have these weird dreams. I asked him about it and he said, “The stuff in your dreams is in your head — not in the pills.” I thought of the filing cabinet in my brain where all my memories are stored and imagined there was a file labeled Really Weird Stuff that I only pull out in the middle of the night. I evidently haven’t used it as much as I did when I lived in DC. There, perhaps because of the political climate of the city or the scary neighbourhood I lived in, I had regular nightmares. When I screamed, my cat, Mili, would thud down from whatever chair she was sleeping in and jump up on the bed and put one paw on me and go back to sleep.

But, that doesn’t happen here since Rose — The Cat — also has been having disturbing dreams and would expect me to comfort her not the other way around. Obviously, I don’t know what she dreams about because she won’t tell me. She says it’s something about bad luck. But I hear her when she’s curled up on the bed snoring away and then making these little murmuring sounds and twitching her whiskers. Sometimes she seems quite pleased with her dreams and other times I swear she’s getting ready to cry. Cats are weird that way — but I’m weirder, I guess, since I’m writing about it.

Who knows why we’re having these dreams. Rose, naturally, blames me as she does with anything that interferes with her 22 hours of sleep each day. Today it was the vacuum cleaner — she hasn’t spoken to me since I used it. Maybe it’s because the heat has been turned  on in the building. I’ve always had nightmares when a bedroom is too hot — temperature-wise not sexually. So maybe Rose and I just have to adjust our inner temperatures to deal with the heat since the fully-opened window doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. I think I’ll just start playing some Everly Brothers at bedtime so I can dream the night away without the nightmares.