Chelsea's mean football dad, Ilene, her little boy and some baby rattlers

I dreamed I had a guest staying with me, Chelsea from group, a bright young quadriplegic with the endearing habit of interrupting whoever might be speaking with the most incisive questions. Disabled with cerebral palsy, she has to struggle to get words out, so whenever she has the energy mustered, and a thought is formed, it will come bursting out of her, catching the speaker off guard, like some random heckler throwing a jibe. 

Because of her disability, and due to the insightful nature of her questions, she is generally given a pass for her constant violation of the group's guideline that prohibits "interruptions and side conversations." Like a reporter, she tends to say what we are all thinking but are too polite to ask. 

She was sitting in my living room in her wheelchair, and I could see that she needed some help. For one, her hairbrush was full of hair. Someone had been brushing her hair very roughly, and it had come out in clumps. I began pulling the hair from the hairbrush, and I soon amassed quite a large ball, as big as a ball of yarn. Not knowing what to do with it, I stuck it in my coat pocket. 

Next, I noticed that all of her wardrobe, which was hanging in the middle of my living room on a long metal clothing rack, similar to the kind in department stores, was in disarray. Coats and blouses were thrown haphazardly on hangers, and the rack looked like a Walmart after Black Friday. My own work uniforms were also interspersed among them, and I felt compelled to arrange things neatly, so everyone's clothes would be easily accessible. 

For some reason, I struggled to get even one coat to hang correctly on a hanger. Part of the difficulty was that I was being taunted by Chelsea's footballer dad. He was a Brit, so the football I am referring to is the one we call soccer. His taunts might have been customary, even expected protocol on the pitch, but they were very off-putting in the venue of my living room.

"Ahh, you suck!" he roared. 

"Can't hang a bloody coat! What an ass!" His friend, another thuggish brute of a fan, egged him on  while I struggled to get the most menial of tasks done. 

In another life, my high school sweetheart, Ilene Skuratofsky, was still alive, and we were living in a well-lit modern house with high ceilings and skylights. She had a 6-year-old son, who was also living with us. 

I'd just gotten out of the shower and was putting on a bathrobe when I noticed a baby rattlesnake on the sleeve of the robe. It slithered its way around the back of the garment, and I craned my neck around to see where it went. That's when I noticed four or five more of them hanging out in various crevices and folds of the robe. I decided that if I didn't panic, they would most likely not bother me, so I went about my business.

Outside, in the front of the house, I saw Ilene standing in the driveway. She looked so lovely, with her long mane of golden locks, and between the waistline of her faded jeans and her cropped T-shirt, an exposed midriff with the most exquisite little belly roll. I instantly wanted to hug her, so I did.

"Hey!" she said, startled. "What's all that about?"

"I can't just hug you?" I complained. "I think I need about a hundred more of these just to catch up."

"Well, you can start with him," she said, pointing to her little boy, who was standing there grinning.

I went over to the kid and gave him a giant hug, and he began picking the baby rattlers off my coat and tossing them into the stairwell that led into the house. Those might come back to haunt us, I thought, but no matter, all seemed well with the world for the moment.

Somewhere between the rattlers and the hugfest, I had been doing some awkward climbing around inside the house. I was up near the ceiling, sort of pressing against two adjacent walls, suspended isometrically with my hands and feet spread out between the gap. I was getting extremely tired, as it was taking all my energy to keep from sliding down to the ground. 

Those are just the remaining fragments of my vague impressions. I make no apologies for lack of narrative or cohesive storyline. They are just my dreams, as I remember them, no more, no less.