A LETTER TO MY THERAPIST: Tom Cruise is Messing with my Dreams. Sleep is Becoming Mission Impossible.

Could you please decipher the meaning and significance of a recent dream? I’m not sure if it’s the result of an excessive BBQ dinner, a sign that I need immediate mental health counseling or if I just need to cancel my FX channel subscription. Please advise.

In my dream, my family was being held hostage by Tom Cruise and a gang of militant henchmen. Our block was vacant, so I’m guessing we probably slept through an evacuation order. Having missed our chance to flee, we were now at the mercy of Tom and his not-so-merry gang of fellow over-actors.

All of Tom’s cohorts were decked out in tight black shirts and cargo pants. They had ridiculously large biceps sporting the requisite tattoos of several-headed snakes and other fire-breathing reptiles. The group couldn’t have been more cliché. And to make matters even more tense, one henchman (Psycho) was getting great pleasure out of taunting me.

I figured removing myself from the room might calm the situation, so I went to the kitchen to make my afternoon coffee. I made sure to ask all the henchmen if they wanted a cup. I was pushing the decaf because they were already amped up. Pitbull, Chainsaw, Diablo, Nitro and Carl expressed no interest in a cup, so I boiled a small pot.

I was filling my French press when I sensed some activity outside. I went to the front hall and saw that a stout, middle-aged lady in a house coat was on our front lawn telling Mr. Cruise we were “repositioning.” Mr. Cruise knew the lady, so she must have been part of his extended Evil, Inc. group. Why she was in a house coat was a curious point for me. Maybe it denoted some type of rank in the group’s militant structure. Perhaps the addition of fuzzy slippers would have made her a two-star general.

While I was pondering such rank intricacies, Psycho stole my coffee just to chap my ass. All this happened as we were rushing to reposition, which meant I didn’t have time to brew another batch. This was a big problem because with the evacuation order in place there wouldn’t be a Dunkin Donuts or McDonald’s open for at least 20 miles.

Even if something was open, I knew there was no way Mr. Cruise would authorize a stop at a fast-food joint. The effort to get several blacked-out paramilitary vehicles full of steroid-pumped understudies through the drive-through would be exhausting.

“Fang, Schizo, put down the grenade launchers! I swear they’re not messing with you! Shamrock shakes and McRib sandwiches are seasonal items. No McDonald’s have them this month.” Tom would plead.

You’d think the Henchman Academy could do a better job preparing their graduates for conflict resolution.

Already feeling a dull caffeine-withdrawal headache, I needed to get Psycho to stop busting my balls before we all squeezed into a cramped Humvee for a painful repositioning. I figured we needed a little talk, mano a henchman.

My logical appeals to Psycho didn’t go well, and we got into a heated argument. I may have even insulted his favorite protein shake brand in the process. During our saliva-spewing exchange I wanted to make a melodramatic point, so I lifted the corner of my living room couch and dramatically threw it back down.

Mr. Cruise was close by, trying to diffuse the situation. Unfortunately, he was a little too close because a couch foot landed on his big toe.

Everyone froze in place and there was an edgy silence in the room as Tom surveyed his damaged digit with an excruciating look on his face.

Tom’s big toe was busted up bad, and he was pissed because we were already past our repositioning time. He was so pissed he took off his sandal—another curious wardrobe choice—and threw it at the wall, destroying one of our framed pictures.

Luckily, Tom’s emotive outburst was the salve that kept Psycho from strangling me. While everyone avoided eye contact with Tom and resumed their duties, I went upstairs to tell Kate she needed to get ready for our trip. She wanted to know if it would be a long or short reposition, so she could pack accordingly.

I yelled down the stairs to Mr. Cruise, “Will this be a long or short reposition?”

Tom wasn’t pleased with all the questions while he was trying to organize his men. I’m sure there was bickering among them about who would ride shotgun and who would drive the Humvee with the cool rocket launcher. A henchmen supervisor’s job is never easy.

About this time, I woke up. Good thing I did, because I’m sure that Tom’s other sandal was about to come off to destroy another framed picture.