Much to the dismay of my family, I’m one of those people who not only remember the most obscure details of their dreams almost every night, but who also feel compelled to share those details, at length, with everyone at the breakfast table.
People at my house often skip breakfast.
Each morning, I lead off with something like, “I had the weirdest dream last night: We were in a bowling alley, and Mick Jagger was there with a cockatiel …”
My husband Mark invariably jumps up, saying, “Look at the time. I’m late for work,” and the kids scatter like cockroaches.
