Your Assignment IS. . . .

On this grey day, I've written a column and a draft of a children's picture book text. Folded one load of laundry and look forward to another exciting basket of underwear, socks, and shirts. Eaten maybe four pieces of lemon tea cake. Kettle heats, as we speak, for more tea. Diapers changed, children dressed. I can't remember what I fed them for lunch because I didn't--Martin's dear mother gave them mac 'n cheese while I finished working.

In one way, Elspeth and I are very much alike.

Like her, I'm always craving excitement. A check, neatly tucked inside the acceptance letter in the mail, the envelope flap licked days ago by some bushy-browed or braided editor somewhere. Where did I get this sense for impending delight? Is it folded into my personality? Where's the next party, people? Where's the next new thing to happen? This is not a trait of an adult, I don't think, or not an especially good one when it feeds impatience and makes me want to shout out in church or nail somebody with a whipped cream pie.

Which I did. Last year. The pie, but not in church. Sometimes life needs refreshing, a little injection of the absurd, a little performance art. My pie-throwing was misunderstood by several people. But real artists have been misunderstood throughout history. Why do I live with my tongue in my cheek?

Today it looks like Wazoo Farm is past 32,000 visits. Thanks, all you who check up on me and the craziness. To celebrate this vague occasion, go do something absurd and interesting in: Five, four, three, two, one. Yahoo! Wazoo!