I dreamed last night that Carter's kindergarten teacher was Martha Stewart, and she didn't want me helping in the class. I asked her what was up and she said, "Well, you always appear to be... what's the word I'm looking for..."
I helped her finish: "High?"
She did that standing-right-there-with-you-but-won't-make-eye-contact-out-of-discomfort thing. "Well..." she answered, and I went ballistic. "What are you saying? Do I smell like marijuana? Are my eyes dilated? What would make you even think that?" (Not to mention, why haven't you called Child Protective Services on me yet? You crappy teacher.)
In response, she quite pointedly eyeballed my clothing. I looked down at myself; my outfit screamed "OPIUM DEN." My hair was a mess and I think I was wearing Janis Joplin sunglasses.
Oh. Well.
I also dreamed I was stung by a million tiny bees, and throughout the rest of the night, no matter what else I was dreaming about, I was picking their tiny stingers out of my fingers; I dreamed about sneaking away from Sacrament meeting to play ping pong up in the gym with a few other bored ward sisters; about going shopping for fabric with Neenaw... I'm sure there was more...