In the order I remember them:
One: I am at a place that feels like my parents' house, yet it looks nothing like it. It's nighttime, probably summer. The world feels large and open, the sky a deep milky blue. We are having an enormous house party, but I get the feeling that either I had nothing to do with the party (despite all the people there being my age) or I orchestrated the party and am now so stressed out that I want to take it back and make everyone go home. I feel completely separated from the activity. Everyone is playing sports of some sort. I get suited up but immediately feel silly and useless as a player, like I've lost all my youthful ability to play sports. At some point during the night, I venture out onto a balcony to use the toilet, but think better of it because everyone can see. It registers as slightly odd that there's a toilet on the balcony. I decide to go to bed early, since the party's just not working out. When I wake up, everyone's gone, including my family. I wait around and fret until my mom comes home with a bag of groceries. Somehow the house was pristine even though I never touched a broom.
Two: I am in a motorboat with a younger version of my brother. We are riding with a family that is not ours — a family with a grandmother, a soccer mom-looking wife, a blue collar-looking father type (the type to look like he'd coach the soccer team) and their kids, though I can't remember what the kids looked like. Perhaps my brother and I were supposed to be the kids. We are traveling over terrain that feels familiar, like it's been covered in water. The family is talking about buying some duplex on the side of the road (where did the water go?) so everyone can have a bedroom between the two apartments. The house is two stories, red brick, with a gravelly front yard, right up next to a highway that's elevated a few feet above the baseline of the house.
That conversation resolved, the dad keeps asking us if we want cheese dip. We are apparently headed to a restaurant. I get the feeling we're in Pickwick. We are speeding past people and trees, and we plunge down a steep hill and stop and take a right just like we would have were we in a car. (That's some boat.) We get to the restaurant and it's got sort of a Moroccan-inspired feel to it, with embellished tiles and curved architecture. We are still in our boat. I nearly fall out, but they pull me back in. My brother has already gone into the water and he seems fine. For some reason I have no desire to go swimming. Yet he's having a great time.
Three: This feels related to No. 2, but I can't remember the segue. We are in a room much like that of the Moroccan-feeling place, but I am sitting with some little girl who reminds me of Dora the Explorer. She is fascinated with a giant tapestry on the wall — one that I really wish she wouldn't touch. But touch it she does. She flips it over and flips it back and shakes it, just playing with it carelessly like any kid would. I scold her strongly, yet she won't stop. I'm afraid she's going to destroy it and we'll get in trouble.
I had another dream about filling up containers or something, but it's totally lost, except for the feeling that it was about filling containers. And as I was waking, that was the only one I remembered. Then suddenly my mind shifted — I literally felt it shift — and I remembered these three and forgot the one about filling containers. That's so frustrating.