Unless I can weave a narrative idea around the random bits and pieces of misfiring neurons (as in the case of my unpublished-because-I-have-no-idea-how-to-go-about-publishing-it novel, The Long Trip), I usually don’t spend a lot time dwelling on dreams in my journal. However, sometimes, you kind of have to. 

Early, early this morning, the move that Kate and I will be making late winter floated to the forefront of my mind in the idea of a dream apartment. She and I had been looking around for a long time, and we had finally stumbled on a place that looked kind of beautiful. It was old, and so there were problems—for example, the thermostat was kind of beaten-up and unreliable, and the floors were freezing cold. Also, we’d be sharing the place with another couple. 

But that was also one of the draws, because they were good cooks, they were charming (the husband was a shorter version of Stanley Tucci’s character from Easy A), and their furniture was comfortable, tasteful, and extravagant. The place was also really huge. The kitchen was open, and could actually fit four people into it (as opposed to the one and a half in our real-world kitchen). Behind the bedrooms loomed a mini-auditorium/ballroom (Dream logic. Just go with it) with floor-to-ceiling windows that made great loading bays for the move. And—this is my favorite part—in said auditorium say a wood-burning stove for a bit of extra warmth in the winter, and maybe some hot apple cider. 

They asked us what we did for a living, and we told them, quite accurately. They told us what they did: they bought and sold authentic Nazi antiques, including posters, appliances, clothing, and the queen-sized bed that Adolf Hitler shared with Eva Braun before they moved to their bunker. With an excited squeal, the wife led us to the basement where she hid their prize acquisition: the basin that little Dolfy took baths in when he was just a baby. As you can imagine, we were horrified, but really, really classy about it. 

The worst part was we continued the dream trying to convince ourselves to look past their business*. I mean, I once convinced a potential roommate I was an Evangelical Christian to get a spot in his apartment (this is 100 percent true in the real world, FYI). Maybe this was just a job to them … That also meant ignoring the sheet music for “Deutschland Über Alles” sitting on their baby grand piano. The place had a basement. 

* This should probably go without saying, but, in non-dream world, Kate and I would have boogied the hell out of there, without even bothering to be classy, for reasons I shouldn’t even have to elaborate upon.