I stood on the sun deck on the fifth floor of our rented beach house, gazing out at the ocean. It was a gorgeous, sunny day and I was down the Jersey shore with my family, staying in a beautiful, huge house that even came with an elevator.

But rather than enjoying myself, I felt like I had hit bottom.

I moved my gaze to the ground directly below where I stood. We were above the back of the house, where there was a short blacktop driveway and a few garbage cans.

Mike walked out onto the deck, and I asked him, “What do you think would happen if I jumped right now?”

He looked down.

“I think you’d be okay,” he said. “You’d probably just break your legs. If you aimed for the trash cans they might break your fall.”

Broken legs sounded pretty good to me right then. It would mean I wouldn’t be able to do much — including work — for a few days.

Something had to change.

That night, we walked down to the ocean and went up to our calves in the ice cold waves with just the moon serving as our light, then we strolled barefoot on the boardwalk, got ice cream, and talked about what to do.

Clearly, I had made a mistake in switching jobs within my company a few months earlier, and now I had to get myself out of the mess I’d created. I made it known that I wasn’t happy, that it wasn’t working out, and that I needed to get back to my old group doing what I know and love and do best, which is editing and writing.

But all routes were blocked, and my health was suffering, so my only choice was to leave.

After I decided that, I felt hopeful. The elephant on my chest was getting lighter. I could eat again and breathe again.

At home a few days later, we figured out what I’d say and I typed it out.

Then, the next day, June 6, something miraculous happened.

Seemingly out of the blue, I got an email that said I had the green light to move back to my old group. Just like that.

I didn’t have to quit. I didn’t have to do anything but embrace my good fortune and feel grateful that things had ultimately worked out in my favor.

The change I wanted had been dropped right into my lap.

I’ve been back doing what I want to do for a few weeks now, and life is good. Really good.

Now that my mind is free of the abject stress and anxiety I’d been dealing with for the last few months, I think I’ll be writing here more.

I can finally relate to this song now.



There’s nothing like waking up from a good night’s sleep. You feel all refreshed and ready to tackle the day and do awesome things.

But what if you dreamed about Donald Trump?

What if you dreamed about Donald Trump not once, but twice in one week?

I can tell you because this happened to me.

You feel all confused and want to go back to sleep to somehow undo the dream and hopefully replace it with a nicer dream, like a dream about cats.

In Dream #1, Mike and I are living in a luxurious, massive, marble-filled penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. There’s a knock at the door and it’s Donald Trump.


“I’m here to take a shower, okay?” he says, acting impatient and condescending. Confused, we step aside and gesture toward a bathroom.

As the shower starts, Mike and I are wringing our hands and whispering furtively, wondering what’s happening.

A rush of water suddenly crashes into the room, like a small tidal wave, and we’re swept off our feet and swimming.

Donald Trump swims toward us and then starts climbing on some high bookshelves and doing cannonballs. He tells us to join him, so we do, and I actually start to have fun. I notice that his usual orange makeup is washed off and his hair is wet and hanging down in his face, and he looks somewhat normal.

In Dream #2, I receive confidential information that Donald Trump wishes to rebrand himself as Donald Drumpf, and I’m tapped to help make this happen.

Now, in real life, Drumpf was his family’s name before an ancestor changed it to Trump. This is no secret. But in this dream, he doesn’t realize that this is widely known and believes adopting “Drumpf” will somehow throw off the haters. Kind of like how a business caught in a scandal might change its name in an attempt to cover it up.

“I really want to be Donald Drumpf, and I want my new image to be part Mr. Rogers, part Homer Simpson,” he announces in a secret meeting that I’m invited to attend.

My duties involve getting new bumper stickers made that read, “Drumpf 2016.”

The first time I had a Donald Trump dream, I was amused. The second time, I began to worry that something is wrong with me.


I normally don’t remember my dreams, so to have two vivid Trump dreams in one week makes me wonder: What’s going on?

Granted, on social media I mostly follow news sites that focus on politics, so every time I mindlessly scroll through my phone I see his face contorted in various unflattering expressions along with articles about the most recent dumb thing he did or said.

But I don’t think about him very deeply because he’s not going to be elected president — I have faith in the American voter. So, I don’t feel threatened. As far as I know, I’m not acquainted with anyone who supports him because I surround myself with good people.

I did meet my very first Trump supporter in the flesh a few weeks ago at our regular watering hole down the street. Judging from his clothing, he was into The Walking Dead and heavy metal and didn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was nice. Within about 10 minutes of chatting, politics came up.

“I support Donald Trump,” he said.

My mind flooded. I had so many things to say.

“So do you know he’s a huge racist? All these white supremacist groups are really into him,” I said. “He’s said some pretty awful things about Mexicans and Muslims.”

“Nah, he’s not racist,” he said. “He’s just not into political correctness.”

I pounded my beer just so we could get out of there, and as we said our goodbyes, he said, “By the way, I don’t vote.”

Normally that would make me cringe, but not this time!

Has anyone else had a Donald Trump dream? Please tell me you have!