Do you know the way to San Jose?

Sure, I have fantasies. As a matter of fact, I have two favorites, both of which revolve around where I might live at the time. Here you go.

The first one I call my down-to-earth exercise, in which I imagine myself as a homeless person. For a long time, my sleeping arrangements were a tarpaulin and a blanket, but somehow lately I've accumulated a refrigerator box. Don’t ask me how I came to have a refrigerator box; it was just there, and I was busily moving into it, dragging my tarpaulin and blanket, trying to adjust the tarp in order to keep out the cold wind and freezing rain. It’s amazing how many different ways that tarp can be arranged: underneath, on top of, strung from a tree, folded into an envelope and held in place with clothespins. All ways that are designed with a specific purpose—protection against the elements.

I also have, thank goodness, a down comforter, because I usually enjoy this feeling of snugness against all odds. Somehow, I am bathed in comfort inside my abode. Molly, the dog, appears to help, and usually gets in the way.

There aren’t any other homeless people around to try to confiscate my warm box; it is mine without a struggle. But if bad guys WERE to appear, I am sure Molly would bark fiercely and scare them off, then turn around three times and plop down beside me to help keep me warm. From that moment, I relax and sleep.

I use the first person when I write about this skit—I, Me. After all, a simple peasant girl doesn’t care if people know about how she thinks or feels.

My other fantasy? The magical out-of-this-world one? Well. There is this place, halfway up the mountain that can only be reached by a devious path, or several devious paths, and the entry to that wondrous place is behind a waterfall. Then, there is a short dark tunnel (with a light at the end of it -- of course you silly goose) and it opens up into a large cavern with a skylight in the ceiling to admit the sunshine and starlight and moonbeams, whichever. In the center of the great room is a hearth with a fire surrounded by large stones. The entire room is carved from an old gold mine—quartz and gold and silver veins circle about, plus beautiful gemstones gleam in the sides, reflecting the light from above and from the fire glow below. The normal cave temperature of 55°F is modified to 72° because of circulating thermal waters beneath the surface, creating a slight waft of breeze throughout the structure. There is a pool located towards the rear of the cave where a relaxing bath of mineral water eases the strain of walking upright.

I must interject here that this place must be described in the third person, by she who abides there. Because the she-person is beautiful, lithe, intelligent, caring, close to perfection; this story would really be science fiction if it were an aspiration, not an inspiration. What does this ultimate lady do for a living? Well, she is like a physician, healing people with natural remedies. She is like a judge, meting out advice to those who ask for her opinion. She is an accomplished dancer, almost flying, defying gravity, in her movements, with ne’er a hint of clumsiness. She can sing the birds out of the trees. She thinks wondrous thoughts. God, what a woman she is! Twenty-five years old. Hardly ever aging. Brilliant red hair, naturally curly. 38-25-36.

My alter ego is not so strong that I could even remotely be this person…denial, denial.

Her sleeping arrangements? There is an alcove up a flight of five stairs, entered from the main room, just large enough for a Tempurpedic bed. How did that big bed get there, halfway up a mountain by a devious path, through a narrow dark tunnel? (Didn’t I mention in the beginning that this was a magical fantasy? By definition, fantasies need have no resemblance to reality.) (But I think, the bed came from the same place as the refrigerator box.)

There is another opening onto a terrace that looks out toward the sea. An enormous city is far, far, away. A forest lies between the mountain and the city and all types of tame animals live there in peace and harmony. On the terrace are many containers with lush plants, melons, beans, squash, herbs and fragrant flowers. Grape vines and cherry and peach trees drape from the overhang above. I think She is a vegetarian, although She does enjoy a smoked fish occasionally, along with a loaf of fresh baked bread from her ovens and a glass of red wine from her vineyard, and cheeses aged and stored back in the cave at the proper temperature, made from the essences of her herds of goats and cows that graze contentedly in the meadows below.

Have you been waiting for the handsome prince? Here he comes. Irish. Riding a jet black steed named Homer, housed in a stable at the base of the mountain filled with shiny straw and fed with the finest alfalfa hay, cared for by a young lad who brushes him down and massages him with DMSO to take away any slight annoyance he might have. The prince rides in, tosses the reins to the stable keeper, rushes up the mountain, enters into the great room, and takes the woman into his arms. Ecstasy. Strangely enough, Molly the dog never appears in this venue. Would it be because the relationship between the man and the woman is complete?

I’m not going to tell you any more of the fantasy. You have an imagination, carry on yourself. But, there are three possible endings to the story:

Ending Number One: They live happily ever after and have lots of children who go out into the world and end up as the Dr. Sweitzers, the Ghandis, the Mother Teresas, the Winston Churchills, plus many famous, successful Jewish comedians and political satirists.

Ending Number Two: The handsome Prince (whose name was Stupid) got tired of all of the perfection and decided to stay in the city and sample the joys of what he found there. He exited so fast that Homer (his steed, pay attention) left skid marks. But Homer didn’t take to being tied up outside the barber shop so often, and ran away to return to the stable with the shiny straw bed plus the abundance of care. He earned his keep plowing the wheat fields and basking in the feeling of being worthwhile without having to put up with being spurred on by the handsome prince. The She-person did finally recover from the shock of Paradise Lost and lived on for a long time, eventually becoming a writer.

Ending Number Three: The She-person gets even.

I can’t tell you any more because the story called The Last Laugh about how she evens the score has been sold to a famous textbook publisher and will sell for $19.95 in paperback in the year 2012 around Christmas time. Many who have been dumped, both males and females, have already placed their advance orders. (E-mail me; I might let you in.)

"What’s that you say, Dr. Leibermann? My hour is up? Yes, Sol, I will see you again next week, same time. Sibling rivalry? OK. Say hello to Aunt Rebecca for me…”