A visit from Jason's family

We were at home together, including a large crowd of long-term guests (though not the ones who IRL are staying here), when I looked out the window and saw three or four minivans pull into our driveway.  I went out to investigate, and realized it was Jason's family -- his mother, father, two sisters, nieces and nephews, brothers-in-law, the whole clan.  I was so happy to see them, and ran down the driveway to give them all hugs.

When I got to them, Charna explained that they were there to do some memorial plantings beside our driveway, to accompany the other memorials already installed.  I looked around, and noticed a few pieces of playground equipment and a little prie-dieu (that was constructed from the same plastic composite as the other playground toys) and realized I'd never seen them before.  Charna and her granddaughter went to kneel briefly at the prie-dieu; I presumed they were sending a prayer to Jason.  (Also odd -- IRL they are Jewish and would never have a prie-dieu.)

I left them to their planting and went indoors to get started on a big feast.  One of the guests offered to cook supper, and I said that I wanted to prepare the meal, especially since the Schoenagles had arrived.  I planned to make a few big pans of lasagna, and asked the guest to go to the market for the ingredients I needed.  She hesitated, reluctant to do so.  I got irritated, asking her what the problem was, and she said, "I'm not sure that lasagna is the way to go..."  I got even more annoyed, saying that it was a great recipe and she shouldn't sweat it.  Still she demurred, so I said, "FINE.  I'll make a big pot of spaghetti -- will that satisfy you?"

I woke up grumpy that I'd had to defend the awesomeness of my goat cheese lasagna.

Journalism in St. Louis

I dreamed I was rushing to an interview at a newspaper in St. Louis.  Traffic was terrible, and as we got closer, I decided to ditch the car and go the rest of the way on foot.  There were emergency vehicles screaming by, cutting around the stopped cars, and as I got closer, I realized they were heading to the office that was my destination.  By the time I got there, though, the fire had been put out, and all the bystanders were cheerful, congratulating the emergency personnel and each other on a job well done.

I went into the office -- a large, brick and stone building with enormous arched windows -- and up the steps to reception.  I immediately spotted my friend and neighbor (who is IRL a realtor, not a journalist) and knew that I would be interviewing with him.  We sat at a round table, and chatted about mutual friends.  He offered me the job on the spot, and I was pleased and proud.

He took me on a tour of the offices; the desks were densely crowded together, spilling from one office to the next, and all the desks were piled high with folded fabric of all patterns, textures, and sizes.  People were seated at their desks, their computers nestled between the stacks of fabric, and would stretch to peer up over the cloth to greet me.  One person explained the fabric kept them warm when necessary, and indicated the huge, arched window behind him.

I was about to ask where I'd be sitting, when I remembered that I live in Cambridge with my family, and couldn't commute to St. Louis every day.  I also remembered that I am not a journalist.  Regretfully, I declined the job, and headed back down the steps and outside.