To sleep, perchance to dream

I know my weird Sunday night dreams weren't alcohol-induced, drug-induced, or any-substance-induced. Still, I gotta wonder when I dream this crap:

• I'm skiing down some gnarly steeep-and-deeps in knee-deep powder. We're talking a total dumpski of the white stuff on a seriously strong pitch. I'm carving turns, I'm doing some near Miller-esque moves, I'm seriously hittin' the pattern. And then I see that my mother has beaten me down to the bottom and is waiting -- perched over her ski poles with a bored look on her face -- at the chair for me to catch up to her. Whoa.
• Obviously I've heard a few too many snippets about the Wacko Jacko trial, cuz I dreamt I was saving a young boy who was being sexually abused by strangers. All very noble and stuff, and then Bree Van De Kamp appears at the door and takes over, pearls in place and knit sweater set intact. Whoa.

Carmen tonight. Look at me, the kulcha'd homuhsekshul.