I have begun sleeping like a champ. I’ll have a future post about how I’ve kicked insomnia’s ass.

My sleep at night was extremely spotty. But I typically fell asleep at movies in the theater. It’s dark, it’s cozy, and I was out like a light. I didn’t attend movies alone because I might need my seat neighbor to nudge me or whisper at me to stop snoring. Suffice it to say that I have slept through parts of all of the Disney/kid movies I attended from 1980 to the early 2000s. I’ve even dosed off during movies aimed at an adult audience. It never bothered me – I figured a quality nap was worth the price of a ticket.

Kim 2.0 has a more normal sleep schedule. Lately, I’ve developed a nasty habit of waking up before 5:00 AM; an ungodly hour, if you ask me. I cannot be completely sure, but this wakefulness coincides with Mr. Lehnhoff’s wake up time. He turns on every light in the bedroom and is not the quietest at getting ready for his workday. Perhaps it’s coincidental, like the fact that I must discuss serious world events with him when he’s trying to drop of to sleep at night. It’s not like I do it to annoy him, but he is a captive audience when he’s laid out flat under the covers. It would be unwise not to take advantage of having his undivided attention when his brain activity is waning. Lord knows what manner of things I could talk him into at this crucial time. He’s apt to agree to most anything just so I’ll shut up and let him sleep.

But I digress. The subject of today’s post involves my dreams. Almost every night, I am witness to (and starring in) Technicolor sagas that, were they to be Hollywood screenplays, would be sure to garner a fistful of Oscar awards. The somnambular extravaganza of a few nights ago involved me cooking a fine repast for an unknown family holiday dinner. This family drama/holiday romp/agricultural experiment gone wrong involved a roast chicken.

It was not an ordinary roast chicken. No, it was a multi-winged fowl, those little appendages appearing all over the breast side of the flesh, looking like so many crooked elbows displaying an attitude of disappointment at their physical appearance. Oh, the shame!

Anyway, I put that aberrant creature in a pre-heated oven set at 510 degrees, “just to crisp the skin”, as I later explained to Mr. Lehnhoff. I had no more than turned to start on the side dishes (mashed potatoes, to be sure, and the usual array of tasty vegetables. Desserts were lined up on the countertop, making me think that I’d rather skip the mutant chicken and go straight for the pastries, when things went horribly wrong.

My sugarplum reverie was disturbed by a curious sound coming from the oven. I swear I heard clucking, followed by several loud thumps akin to heavy footsteps.

Turning toward the sound, I saw the gas range taking hulking steps across the kitchen floor, the oven door flapping open and closed, open and closed. The range began spinning in circles in the middle of the room.

Did I shirk away in fright, and make my way to the nearest exit? You’re damned right I did. I ran to the nearest neighbor’s house, looking for advice and refuge. It seemed that our two incredibly attractive (and imaginary) young children had also taken refuge at the neighbor’s house. The 1970s-era Colonial furnishings are as I remembered them when this family lived two houses down the street from my childhood home – decades before I knew Mr. Lehnhoff, and frankly, the state of Missouri, existed.

Don and Maryann, the home owners, had not aged a bit. Clad in Brady Bunch-era clothing, they were just sitting down to a scrumptious dinner. The aroma of the food was intoxicating, and I immediately remembered that we three interlopers had not eaten. I was disappointed when I realized that their 1970s hospitality did not make an appearance in 2021, so we went home without a morsel.

We returned to see Mr. Lehnhoff standing in the kitchen, the oven, now stationary, its door ajar, and he was holding the roasting pan that contained the charred remains of the poultry freak of nature.

Mr. Lehnhoff, giving me his best “Dad look”, shouted, “This is DINNER? It’s all WINGS! You know I HATE WINGS!”

With that utterance, my brain immediately shifted to the Chinese restaurant scene in The Christmas Story, and I started singing “Jinger Berrs”.

End of scene.

I’m sure this epic would have continued had Mr. Lehnhoff not begun his noisy and well-lit morning routine.

And last night? I dreamed of an extended family wedding held on a rollicking cruise ship.

I have all the movies I need to watch inside my head.