Vivid Dreams

So last night's dream was a weird one. Very Philip K. Dick, as my husband would say. Everything started normal- that is to say normal in a hallucinogenic dreamlike normal way. I was a slightly younger version of me, off on a crazy adventure with a bespeckled chubby 14-year-old boy. We started at a modeling casting call in New Jersey. This was probably a memory retrieved from early childhood. My mother believed that she could actually get me to do something productive and lucrative with my weekends.

Anyway, we started off as friends when we walked through the door but it quickly became apparent that I was not always quite myself. We switched bodies several times or maybe he disappeared and I turned into him several times because this was still my story and it was more natural to be in the body of a female. I had to face the next stage of the nightmare all on my own. I was auditioning for "America's Next Top Model." Can you hear the scary music?

I am not exactly supermodel material, and in the dream I couldn't understand who put me up to such public humiliation. I was getting into a terrible state. Tyra Banks would surely criticize the way I walked, my messy hair, and my entire external being. I was lined up next to younger, skinnier, and eager women. They at least had a shot at modeling fame. I didn't feel inadequate as a person, just inadequate as a walking clothes rack with a blank face. Sorry, I mean I felt inadequate as a model. I searched the room for that friend of mine and when he was lost for good, I chose to seek out the next best thing: an exit.

Just as I was about to leave the torture chamber of embarrassment, Tyra Banks said, "And you too will have the chance to be America's Next Top Model. Yes you, the Jewish girl." If I had a full bladder, I would have emptied it right there. Thank goodness for bladder control.

As Ms. Banks stared me down, my story as an awkward girl stopped and the boy's story began. I somehow teleported into him, outside of the casting call and onto a happy suburban street. We or rather I was skipping along enjoying the sunny day. I tossed an old baseball into the air and caught it with ease. I thought, "Okay, so I'm a boy. But this isn't so bad. La dee la."

But things soon took a sour turn when we—or I—found myself with his fictional father, a overbearing and cruel police sergeant who came straight out of a 1950s B movie. We—or rather I—was sent to his office at the retro police station. He was very angry and sat me down in a short wooden chair as he came up with a punishment for my crime. I'm not sure what I did but it was bad enough to warrant writing my apology 100 times on his scratchy chalkboard while he angrily watched me with folded arms. Other odd punishments continued until he did his worst; he threw out the boy's only pair of shoes. Our pair of shoes. Do I have a problem with authority or what?

As I walked home, depressed and shoe-less, I slowly reverted back into a female. I was me, the younger dream—me who couldn't understand how she got involved reality television. I opened a letter in front of my parents and explained to them that I made it to stage two of "America's Next Top Model." For some reason, they found that a short Jewish girl would add some diversity to the program and they sent me a plane ticket for their first location shoot in Ethiopia. I prayed that they would drop me in the next act but since Ethiopia is supposed to be beautiful, I was a little excited nevertheless. Just as we got off the plane my alarm went off and I was released from nightmare.

Vivid dreams are part of my life. Some are actually worth telling and I'm not sure that this one qualified. I've been a 19th century Chinese peasant woman, a Western missionary in feudal Japan, and a secret agent on the run. This one was just odd. A bit too multiple personality for me. But why do I dream like this when so many people can't remember a single dream? Perhaps I'll never know the answer. But I could spend a few hours wasting my time on that question. Hmm. Something to do tomorrow.

Women Cabbies

On a recent hot Sunday morning, my husband and I hopped in the nearest cab so that we could make it to brunch on time. We noticed something different, something not the same about our taxi; our driver was a woman. In fact, she was a lovely south Asian, middle-aged, lady from London. This was big news.

Can I tell you just how rare this ride was for me? In ten years of city living, I have never been fortunate enough to ride in a woman's cab. When I asked around, my friends could count similar occasions on one hand. In 24 years, one gal recalled two lady cabbies in all. Just two. Another friend of mine remembers a cab driver that fit the same description as mine. Perhaps it was the same one?

It must get a bit annoying to hear so many passengers exclaim, "You're my first female driver!" According to Reuters, females make up 1% of the city's drivers so when you see one, it is like finding a silver dollar in your piggy bank; you know they exist but you didn't think they were in regular circulation.

We chatted the entire twenty-minute ride up to Greenwich Village, discussing local politics, housing, tourists, and of course, the weather. She stayed off the phone and followed the rules of the road; every moment was civil and safe- also rare for NYC cab rides. She acted like somebody's mother, the kind who insists that she drive you home, just to be sure that you are delivered safe and sound. I wouldn't guess that every female cab driver acts the same. One could only hope that they somehow conform to this particular woman's style.

Lady, if you read this- keep up the good work and don't let the man get you down!