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?)