For as long as I can remember I've said to anyone who'd listen, "I have really weird dreams." But last night's was a true Freudian delight. If you're my friend you'll say, "Really? Tell me about it." If you're my husband you'll say, "Oh gawd, you're going to tell me about another one of your dreams; can't you just hit me over the head with a hammer instead?" And yet, he'd sulk for days if I began dozing off while he tried to tell me a story like the following: "About an hour before dark, I saw two steelhead holding near shore, as if they were on a redd. I drifted an egg pattern past them, and the nearest one turned and grabbed it. He seemed strong and determined to stay in that spot. Since I could not move him to me, I walked up to him in order to land him. That steelhead and his neighbor were clamped to a chain stringer which was anchored to the bank, yet he still took a fly. As a matter of fact, he actually had to move a few inches to intercept it. I released the first fish from both my fly and the stringer, and the second fish was released from the stringer. That amounted to 3 releases on one cast." And then, if I was still awake he'd begin to explain the means by which one develops a physical theory using Idealized Models.

(Wow! I went back to sleep after I started writing this hub [my dogs get me up before the butt crack of dawn] and had a miserable nightmare. "I was having these bogus nightmares all night long." --E. Cartman)

Where was I . . . Oh yeah. I had the weirdest dream last night! This dream had everything! High School, college, flying, the recession-depression, drugs, music--no sex though, dammit.

Now, I've never visited another continent, but hope to before I die. I for sure want to visit Europe, and I pray it will be in better shape than it was in my dream. In the dream I was flying to Europe and was dressed in a really tacky prom-type gown. The thing was floor-length, silvery and I also had a white feather boa wrapped around my neck. When I got off the plane I was whisked onto a bus with my fellow passengers and taken on a five day tour of famous places. Unfortunately Europe was also in the middle of an even more depressing recession than America, so the tour was crappy. I mean, everything looked like movies I've seen of post-war Europe. So I got back to the U.S., still wearing my ruined finery and remembered I was late for an art class. Not only was I late, I'd (once again in dreamland) forgotten that my semester-end class project was due. I began wandering around the studio searching for scraps which may have been cast off by the other students so that I could slop something together and avoid paying all that tuition for naught. No one was asking me why I was wearing a prom dress--Oh, yeah, they wouldn't; not in art school. Suddenly I yelled at one of the instructors, "Doesn't anyone want to know about my trip to Europe!?" The guy said, "Oh! Were you in Europe? We've all been kind of busy here so I guess we didn't notice you were gone." I rolled my eyes and continued my search for bits and pieces of castoff artwork that I could build into something that didn't look obviously plagiarized. When I realized it was a hopeless cause and that I was going to probably flunk the class I decided to leave the building, but it was attached to the building where I went to high school. After wandering through the hallways I finally made it to the gym where ridiculously-garbed students were decorating for the prom which was about to begin. They seemed of the appropriate age for high school and I'm old enough to be a high schoolers grandmother. They were giving me that look that says, "You don't belong here," pretty much the same look I got when I actually attended my high school prom. So I decided that when I got out of the building I'd call the guy who had taken me to prom (the old geezer who also turned out to be my daughter's father), ask him to put on his old tux, meet me there and really give them something to gawk at. Leaving the building was made difficult by some remodeling near the exit and I wound up having to climb down some scaffolding. I had to take off and carry my silver heels and noticed my stockings were hopelessly ruined. When I got to the street I didn't know which way to go because nothing outside was familiar due to all the reconstruction also taking place outside.The thing about the reconstruction is that it was being done with the same crappy materials they were using in Europe and the workers all looked like my grandpa. I looked around, said to hell with it and went to hide out under a bridge until things returned to normal.

When I woke up I remembered one of Steve Martin's classics--You can be a mill-yon-air and never pay taxes. That's right! You can be a millionaire and never pay taxes. And you're thinking, 'But Steve, how can I be a millionaire and never pay taxes?' First: Get a million dollars . . .

Okay, you can go back to sleep now.