Thursday, May 22, 2008

Anyone? Anyone?

Anyone? Anyone?



Am I the only one who dreams about Ferris Bueller? Not about the skinny kid or the catatonic friend (freaky how well I remember this movie) or even the cool fast car going through the plate glass window, but the whole stinkin' concept of a day off, playing hookie when the stakes are high.



Hooky or hookie? Nooky or nookie? There's just too much "'C' is for Cookie" in my life to take off for a baseball game, a parade and a dine-n-dash at a linen tablecloth restaurant right now, but I still can fantasize. Can't I?


My other running fantasy (children, avert your eyes) is I hope not as rare as I think. I'm making no sense, I know. What I am trying to say is that I sometimes, okay, several times a week, I think about a bad as-yet-unwritten novella in which we all enter the witness protection program. It would have to include everyone I love. I'm not really sure what we witness for which we need the protection. It's a hazy kind of fantasy. Bear with me.


In this fantastic danger-free but intrigue-ridden witness protection program, my extended family and all dear friends are whisked off in a jet that looks like Air Force One but with champagne cocktails served after 10 a.m. Maybe the President does drink champagne cocktails, but I hope not while making big decisions. He's not on the plane. The kids get homemade macaroni and cheese and I don't have to hear them whining about eating it before the oven step of the preparation. That's because they have their own cabin in the jet. And FBI-provided gramma-like nannies. Yeah.


It's very important that we leave all obnoxious cell phones behind, but we're provided new schmancy laptops and a cool digital SLR so I can keep blogging.


Then we land in a serene little coastal Baja town and are handed sombreros for the year-round sunshine and of course Jackie O sunglasses to protect our identities from the caballeros. Okay, if you speak Spanish, feel free to correct my spelling there. Maybe the jet stopped for a week at an undisclosed five-star hotel for intensive Spanish lessons, which the children picked up well enough that they won't whine anymore, because whining just doesn't go with a Romance language. Yeah.


We settle in to our not-weird new communal living situation with all of our dear friends and family. It's easier because the floors are marble tile and there's a maid for every child's elbow. We never think about day-to-day stresses such as budgets, because that's what the FBI is for now. I learn to knit. I have to send the socks and scarves to those in a colder climate, because we wear swimsuits all the time and we work out a lot so that's not scary either.


(That last thing is far fetched, isn't it?)

6 comments:

Chickie Momma said...

You didn't happen to empty out the daffodil vase before you wrote this post did you? I mean... girl, you're out there!

But of course I like it. I can relate. LOL

Misty said...

It's always good to dream... I mean, rumor has it that sometimes dreams come true... :)

But maybe it is the "vase" to blame, like CM says :)

Farm Chick said...

O! Deary me! I am the Queen of Everything and you are lost in an undisclosed location.....LOL

Bring on the Jackie O' glasses and just as stylish swimwear, along with a wonderfully refreshing cocktail. I am right there with ya sister!

Hey! Doesn't writing a book require research? And travel, so as to write and authenticly? I see a road trip in our future.......(as your new assistant I will, of course be your traveling companion)

Farm Chick said...

Yes, and while we're at it maybe you could teach me some grammar and spelling.

Maybe, you could teach me how to type too.

Ei said...

You had me until you pulled out the exercise card. I mean, um, doesn't the FBI have machines for that or something?

I am a huge Bueller geek...and pretty much any other John Hughes movie. We'll get along just fine

Barb said...

Well, you KNEW I'd believe it. Clearly, I believe anything. Child has a B.B. thrown into her ear from across the playground? I believe it? Witness Protection Program as a giant international pub crawl? I'm so there--er, I mean, I believe it. (But if you invite me, I want my washboard abs back, too. As long as it's a fantasy and all...)