I always begin my sleep with a nice little fantasy. I mention this because I learned a couple years ago that not everybody does so. Some people put their head on the pillow and think about their day or what they have to do the next day. That seems like a lousy way to spend your downtime. I don’t know if there’s a correlation, but from the people I’ve discussed this with, the ones who start with a fantasy seem to be better sleepers. It’s something for you restless worrywarts to consider.

So I have a catalog of fantasies that I rotate. The usual stuff: career goals, wild adventures and of course romance are a few. For a long time my stud of choice was John F. Kennedy Jr. but after he died I tried it a few times and it just seemed creepy. Some might think that dreaming about any celebrity (dead or alive) is creepy but it’s easy since the face and personna have already been established so I don’t have to create a backstory. Why don’t I dream about guys I actually know? Because I don’t know any that are dream-worthy. It should come as no surprise that after John John I moved on to George Clooney. I actually have a fun one with him where we’re the only two survivors of a plane crash and land on a Lost-type island with a fully stocked hatch. And of course he falls madly in love with me. That should tell you the level of my self-esteem when even in my fantasies I know the only way I could nab Clooney is if I’m the only woman available. But other men occasionally make guest appearances in my dreams. For a brief time last fall, I even had a dream-fling with Billie Joe Armstrong (lead singer of Green Day), all 5’8″ of him- tattoos, eyeliner, snaggletooth and all. But I usually stick to the pretty boys like Antonio Sabato Jr. and Ricky Martin, who pop in on occasion (and in my dreams, Ricky’s definitely straight).

Then there’s the financial windfall dream. It used to be a result of hitting the jackpot on Megabucks (which would be hard to do because I never even play that slot) but now it’s a little closer to home through winning the World Series of Poker, which last week made one guy $12 million richer. In that fantasy, the pivotal moment comes when I’m in second chip position to Dan Harrington. He makes a preflop raise and I reraise with my pocket kings. He then goes all in and I’m faced with a dilemma: anybody else, I’d call immediately but the tightest player in poker just went all in against the only person who can really do his stack any damage. But how can I lay down kings??? After a long delay and a promise that he better not think he can bully me again, I fold my kings face up and he shows me pocket aces. The crowd goes wild at my stellar read and tremendous restraint in folding (not realizing it’s just because I’m chickenshit and pocket kings always seem to get me knocked out of tourneys). Somewhere along the way, Harrington is gone and I’m head-to-head with Phil Ivey. I BEG him to split the prize money and even tell him he can have the title and bracelet but he refuses. Then I kick his ass and win the $15 million (it was $12 million this year but I expect it to be $15 million when I win it). I play the good sport but inside I’m thinking, “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for not taking my offer, Ivey! Woohoo!” Then the dorky announcer Norm Chad (a guy I’ve actually played with in home games) asks me what I’m going to do with the money and I tell him I’m going to take it all to the craps table and put it on Big 6 or Big 8. My friend Courtney laughs hysterically but nobody else gets it and thinks I’m a moron for placing the worst bet in the house. Then Phil “The Unabomber” Laak is so impressed with me he dumps Jennifer Tilly and he and I ride off into the poker sunset (ok, that’s not in the dream but I do think we’d make a good couple. Maybe I’ll add him to the lineup).

So now I have $15 million dollars. I don’t need that much so I decide to give a lot of it away (because that’s how I roll ;) ). And this is where my dream takes a major downward spiral. I should be thinking about fabulous vacations on enormous yachts or sunning by the pool at my spectacular mansion while Pedro (my cabana boy) brings me pina coladas and sprays me with mist whenever he makes me too hot. I mean, whenever the sun makes me too hot. But instead I’ve got checks for $1 million dollars to give to each of my family members and suddenly I’m trying to figure out taxes and deductions through charitable donations. I actually work all that stuff out in my dream! If there are two things that don’t belong in fantasies, they’re children and math. I guess feces would be another. But I find myself doing this more and more. Even the romance dreams have gone downhill while I work out details like getting the guy out of his marriage and somehow eliminating any pesky offspring from that marriage. Or I’m trying to figure out exactly how Clooney and I managed to be the only survivors of the plane crash (plane goes down remarkably slowly in water. Apparently Clooney’s at the back of first class while I’m at the front of coach and we both lunge for the emergency exit. We grab the rope to an automatically inflating raft that’s on a plane for some unknown reason- sometimes I have to fudge reality a bit- and it yanks us up to the surface while everybody else plummets to their deaths. Bummer for them for not reacting faster).

I still like dream time but boy do I miss the days of my youth when I could go straight to the good stuff.