This morning I had the most bizarre dream — I was 16 again and living with my parents. And that somehow, a strange cake made of CRACK was mistakenly delivered to our house.

When we realized that the cake wasn’t meant for us and that yes, the top layer of it was CRACK, I started freaking out. My parents? Were like, “Hey, free crack! Let the good times roll!”

I kept saying, “We’ve got to get this to the police! We can’t keep this! And we definitely can’t EAT this!” And my dad said something like, “Oh Lisa. What’s a little crack now and again? Its no big deal.” My mom added, while giving my little brother a slice, “It won’t hurt you if you have it once in awhile.”

So while they all heartily partook, I kept shouting. “You can’t eat this! It will harm your bodies! You will become addicted! It’s illegal! It will KILL you!”

They clearly didn’t seem to care and happily enjoyed the cake.

I woke up when a certain little boy hit me in the head with a Matchbox car.

My parents are very clean-living people. I get frequent lectures on how I should lower my sugar intake. And I don’t think that they could even spot “crack” or “meth” if it was served to them on a platter with a little sign indicating what it was. Actually, I wouldn’t know either.

Many, moons ago, (I was 13-ish) my mom returned home from a church garage sale all excited about the ugly, funny-looking vase she found. She wanted to give it to my aunt Joanne as a birthday gag gift. IT WAS A BONG! And know what? NONE OF US CLUED IN! (Apparently no one working the church garage sale did either.)

My brother, sister, and I eventually figured that out. And when we did, we couldn’t resist informing our mom (much to her horror) that she — actually supplied drug paraphernalia to our aunt.

I don’t know WHAT caused me to have that dream. But I’m thinking that I should probably stop eating powdered donuts while watching the snow fall before I go to bed.