February Crazies

Plan for the next two hours: make like Beatrix, grab the tupperware of eclairs off of the top shelf of the refrigerator, and hide under the dining room table. Proceed to stuff eclairs into my mouth at an alarming rate.

Plan for the next two days: make myself bright red wings. With much flapping and flying feathers (like a burlesque dancer with boa), take off from my office window, circle around the sleds lying in mud, and take off for east Africa. Children stare, agape, from windowsill. "Come back!" they cry. "We need a drink of water!" I hear: the rush of wind in my ears, the distant hum of a jet engine, the rumble of distant thunder.

Plan for next two years: Pile all our possessions on the curb, five things each evening, until our house echoes. Sleep on grass mats on the floor. Hire someone to clean the bathtub. Let the children paint bright murals on the walls and floors, until the soles of our feet are covered in rainbows. Dance to guitar music with no socks, shirts, or medicines of any kinds. Eat peas from the garden for supper.

Recommended actions for next two minutes: Throw phone out door down the hill. Hold white conch shell to ear, wait for music.