I had the weirdest dream last night . . . I was back in high school. By which I mean, not that I was seventeen, but that for some reason I was going back to high school, with the rest of my high school class, at 33. I remember remarking on the oddity of this in my dream . . . I wasn't entirely clear whether they could actually take away my college diploma if I didn't graduate this time.

Also, Tony Shalhoub was my headmaster. And also, Tony Shalhoub, star of Monk. In my dream, I first met him in a downtown restaurant, and was telling him how much I'd loved him in Wings, and then I was awfully surprised to find him on the schoolbus that was taking me back to my school.

They'd changed all the buildings around, and the teachers were all different, though they all seemed to know me.

I was not happy in high school . . . I was the dismal hippie chick who didn't read enough William Burroughs to actually reject all that excruciatingly dull normality . . . who watched a lot of teen flicks and wanted so badly for Prince Charming to rescue me from sticking out like a sore thumb and carry me off to that magical land where I'd get a cute little Volkswagon Rabbit convertible, an enchanting new wardrobe, and measurements more along the lines of 36-22-36. I haven't gotten the figure, the car, or the wardrobe, and I doubt that I'd fit in better with the self-satisfied solons of my high school class than I did then. But in my dream, I was so glad to be back. I remember saying to one of them on the schoolbus that no one would ever know me as well as my classmates. And then I woke up and thought, that might be true . . .