Dream Catcher

Now that we’ve settled in a bit, we’re sleeping comfortably in the king-size beds at the condo. They’re giant, way bigger than Figgy’s twin at home, and our queen, which is pushed up against the wall in our Lilliputian bedroom.

Sleeping better has gone hand in hand with something else. My dream life has been incredibly fertile for the last two nights. I’m almost afraid to delve into it, because often, my dreams point me in a direction in real life, or bring up issues that I’d rather not contemplate.

Mother Figure?
Saturday night, I dreamt all about EJP, a women’s magazine editor I reported to for about 3½ years in the 1980s. I don't remember now exactly what I dreamed, just that I was back in my office in the skyscraper, working as her assistant.

EJP came from a small town in Wisconsin, and I really liked her. After my first editor, who didn’t want me to dabble in writing, but simply to excel at her expense reports and personal shoe orders [size 11N], EJP was a dream come true.

She was tall and gangly, had sky-blue eyes, and wore cute cardigans and eyeglasses. She was only a little quirky, and had an even temper, not like my erratic first editor. That meant so much to me. Better yet, she led the General Editorial department, overseeing the staff writers who wrote the service copy about food, fashion, beauty, decorating and crafts.

EJP was thoughtful. I think she was in her late 40s or early 50s, and I shared my first magazine byline with her. When I look back, I see a gracious pro who must have salvaged the efforts of an amateur. The article was about a charity that donated Cabbage Patch dolls--the hot toys back then--to kids in need. I don’t remember my phone interview with the lady at the charity, but I can tell you I was not at all as comfortable as I am now at asking questions and recording answers, and having the presence of mind to move onto the next question without getting flustered.

EJP had a boyfriend [B.], and I’d take phone messages when he called. We chatted often. They set me up on my first blind date, with B.’s friend’s son [it didn’t work out, but it’s a good story, like many blind dates]. She and B. even drove down to my apartment at the shore to deliver two hip canvas and chrome chairs they could no longer use.

She was generous. She bought me pots and pans for my first apartment, a set of knives that we still use, and a place setting of our sterling silver flatware from our wedding registry. She and B. invited us over for dinner, and came to our wedding. H. and I went to theirs. B. had grown kids from his first marriage; EJP never had kids. She took me to lunch at Café Un Deux Trois on 44th Street one Christmas week, with another editor and her assistant, and got me a rich chocolate cake from Zaro's for my birthday.

When I got fired after freezing at the typewriter once I was promoted to writer, she got out her Rolodex and gave me every contact she could think of. When I moved onto Good Housekeeping, we met for lunch regularly, and continued to exchange Christmas gifts for a few years.

We fell out of touch after EJP and B. moved to Florida. I tried to reconnect a few years ago. I hope she is okay.

EJP's Rules [spoken or not, this is what I learned from her about writing, and about life]
1. Make sure one sentence leads to the next. In other words, even though there’s a period, you have to connect one thought to the next with a transition--like but, while, moreover.
2. It’s okay to get mad in life and work. She’d sometimes blurt things out at someone. She didn't pull punches. She wasn’t always loved for that, but being loved did not pay her salary.
3. Save as much money as you can. EJP instructed me [just as Sis did] that whenever I got a raise, I should put the difference directly into my 401K. I did.
4. It's good to be friendly and able to draw people out. "You'd be a great guest at a cocktail party," she once told me.
5. Your name matters. One unfortunate young assistant at the magazine had a name I don't want to mention here, but it was along the lines of Blondie. "She should change her name," EJP told me. "No one is going to take her seriously with a name like that."

Real Mom
Last night, I dreamt about my mother, who died from cancer at the end of my sophomore year in college.

It's been 11 hours since I woke up, so I can't recall all of the details. But I do remember that I was time traveling and got to be with my mother in her late 20s/early 30s in New York City. [In reality, by that age, she had two or three kids and lived in suburbia. But I wasn't born until she was 36.]

She was pretty, so pretty. That part is real, especially when she was a younger woman. She had rich chestnut hair, soulful brown eyes, soft skin and a zest for life. Her enthusiasm was contagious.

In the dream, she was the hippest, coolest one in her group of men and women. She wore a leather jacket, and made wise cracks. She drove a big car. At one point, everyone piled into taxis to go to a store where they'd all meet up. She got into her car and I think I got a ride with her.

Her beauty shifted in the dream. When she turned one way, she was stunning. From another, not so much.

My Dad was not in the dream. Where was my good Dad?

Knitting the Two Together
I don't think it's a coincidence. Here I am, lost in a way, uprooted from my home, afloat. [This morning when I stopped by our house for the mail, water was dripping into our living room and dining room.] Having to face a lifetime of possessions, sort through them, discard many. Confront my hopes and dreams head-on as a wife, writer, mother, daughter. Sift through the tangible remains, the memories. Keep what is important, be strong enough to dump the rest. Realize I am not throwing away people, just things. Not power, just paper.

Still, I'm looking for security. For a mother.

I think I tried to turn EJP into a mother figure. It didn't work.

My life can be divided into Part 1 [had a mother] and Part 2 [motherless].

My mother's absence shot a hole in me, and I think I've spent Part 2 looking for ways to fill it.