I am on a sound stage hosting some Today-like morning talk program. We're doing a segment on makeup for fall, and the lady we've got on to host the piece is not Joan Rivers, but she's got the same stylist. You know the look: pink tweed pantsuit, 30-odd years of facial plastic surgery, and heavy, heavy pancake clown makeup. After filming stops, the woman begins to attack my look in a passive-aggressive manner. I wear little to no makeup on a day-to-day basis (true), and Rivers-doppelgänger is aghast that I haven't even bothered to wear eyeliner and lipliner on the air. She's walking me through the compact options that she'd recommend I immediately start implementing into my daily routine, and, much to my chagrin, my mother is walking behind Rivers-doppelgänger, nodding and smiling at her suggestions. Mama has the nerve to tell me that Rivers-doppelgänger is totally right, that I should be more aware of my appearance. I am irritated, because success in medical school has nothing to do with my makeup habits. (After writing this, I'm kind of thinking that Rivers is her own doppelgänger, but whatever. Also, interesting fun fact: when I image googled "too much makeup" in order to find a picture for this post, Tammy Faye Baker popped up everywhere, but no Joan Rivers. Since Baker just kicked the bucket, I'll keep it classy with another picture.)

After I leave the sound stage, I run into a guy I know. This guy always has beautiful curly hair (not you, Scott, though your hair's also very nice). For some reason, he's chopped his hair into a very short and wholly unappealing buzz cut. The effect is so dramatic that I don't recognize him at first. However, as soon as he opens his mouth, I can tell who he is. Years of people telling this kid he's a genius (which he is, in some respects) haven't served him all that well; he assumes that he's an authority on many subjects, when, in fact, he presents himself as pompous and extremely irritating most of the time.

I ditch the kid and take a route walking home with my mom that leads us right by St. Patrick's Parish, the church at which I was First Communion-ed and confirmed. I spot a limo in the driveway along with rows of catering tables - a wedding's obviously taking place. Mama insists that we peek inside to see who's getting hitched, so we walk in the main entrance. St. Pat's is magnificent in my dream, with a vestibule that's more like a huge reception hall. Tables are set up in here for the post-nuptials dinner and dance. Of course, my mom immediately spots a woman she recognizes and is assigned by said woman to man the guest book. I follow her to the guest book table, but she soon sees someone else she must greet, and she abandons me. I am grudgingly manning her post when a woman who looks vaguely familiar approaches. She begins to tell me a story about the mysterious disappearance and death of a man who is apparently one of her relatives. He was going out to meet a friend whose truck had stalled in an isolated area, and the last person who saw him alive was the person at Citgo who sold him cigarettes on his way out of town. I am very intrigued by her story, and I ask her questions until I've gotten all useful information about the case from her. (I had a weird in-dream déjà vu experience while the woman was telling the story of this unsolved murder. I don't know if it was a component of another dream that I'd forgotten before writing down or if the story's loosely based on reality. It was truly bizarre to feel déjà vu in a dream, in any case.)