Ever since I returned home from Florida, I’ve been plotting in my mind about how I can get back there. I’m not having vacation withdrawal, I’m having weather withdrawal. I know, it’s ridiculous. I’m not saying it’s like I’m up here on the chain gang or something—I love my life here—the people, my house, the gig I’ve got going. It’s unarguably one of the prettiest areas in the country. It’s just that I am telling you, even though I was born and raised right outside Boston and now live in New Hampshire, I swear, this is not where I’m meant to be. Someone in my ancestry took a way wrong turn! So me going somewhere warm for a week is like giving a junkie a crack hit and then taking it all awayyyyy. (That ‘splains why I’m all shaky and shivery and shouty and stabby right now.)

See, I h.a.t.e. the cold. And the older I get, the more I hate it. Being cooped up inside while I *know*  (warm weather people reading my blog–please forgive my tone as I’m relatively sure it’s temporary insanity) other people (me-ow!) are drinking in the aroma of  fresh cut grass while they swim outside makes me ca-rabby. Booooooo.  So….I might have bought a lottery ticket this week. Or three. I know. I know. That’ s a game plan, right? Stay tuned to watch me get struck by lightning!

But I’ve been thinking. It’s probably better this way, that I live in the land of Vitamin D deficiency. If I moved south of the Mason-Dixon line, think about all the bad things that could happen:

1. Melanoma would surely ensue, because let’s review, I vacillate between the color of sugar and flour. And hell, living in the cold is surely better than swimming with the fishes. Maybe it’s for my own good I’m locked up half the year?

2. If I wanted to ensure I ward off melanoma, I’d probably A. bankrupt myself buying Coppertone and B. blind the neighbors with my doughgirl Irish skin…I’d have to provide them with those eclipse glasses. They’d probably throw garlic at me and no one would talk to me at block parties as I stand in the corner drinking my beer out of my Canadian souvenir cup. They’d be all, “Tacky tourist!” and start singing, “One of these things is not like the o-ther!”

3. If I encountered someone rude or surly down south while buying my case of Coppertone, I’d likely blurt out, “Awww, you’re just pissed we won the war!” and stomp off like I did in Pensacola once. And that’s not how a lady should act! (Hey, she started with ME!)

4. I think I’d have night terrors about the bugs. Dude. The bugs. They need their own zip code down there. I saw a bug on the ground at Epcot and it was so stinking big it attracted a crowd. Ok, a crowd of little boys but still. (Seriously. You pay Walt through the nose to get in to go on rides created by literal geniuses, and there are all these boys staring at this…..thing….When the bug is the wow factor at Epcot, that bug ain’t right.) I can only say it was so honkingly huge, I told the boys I thought we could fly home on it. EEEEH.

5. Let’s not underestimate what a challenge it would be to live in a climate where there would be virtually little to no chance of masking the muffin top with a toasty, roasty cable Lands’ End nerd herd sweater or fleece? I’m down with down, yo! Wearing that shizz down there would probably create an international incident when the feds started tailing me thinking I’m all up to no good hiding contraband in my coat on a hot day. “Sorry, officer, no! Please don’t take me away! I don’t have ANY weapons under here—just my muffin top! I love my fami-leee….Noooo! How will I Facebook from the clink?????”

On the other hand…hmm…prison time. Three squares, no worrying about what to cook, no one recoiling at my cooking. Lots of time to pump iron and bond with other chicks—far cry from the frat house. And I’m sure in no time I could get an online MBA, master license plate making, or become an internet reverend! Mama would be proud!

On second thought, maybe I should go turn the heat up and go check those lottery numbers………..

I’m baaa-aaack.

I thought about running away in my flip flops for reals this time, but let’s face it, we all know I ain’t that fast.

The fam and I finally took the plunge and did the Disney trip over school vaca. I have to say, I was a bit of a cynic about the materialistic Disney machine prior to my trip and sort of looked at it like I was checking the box for the kids, but I had soooo much fun. Really. I feel really lucky we got to go even though we might not be able to send the boys to college now. (That mouse is like a B movie mafia guy….smiling at you while he picks your pocket all week!)

GIMME ALL YOUR MONEY WHILE I STAND HERE LOOKING INNOCENT AND DEMURE. ALL OF IT. YES, EVEN THE BEER MONEY. NOW, HAND IT OVER!

Naturally, the most fun was seeing it through my kids’ eyes and getting a sunburn in February. My three year old mauled Handy Manny like a tween at a Bieber concert. Turns out my four year old who’s afraid to go downstairs alone, rocked out on Tower of “Tennis” (aka Terror…he didn’t even say it right the first time which is what made it even funnier), the scariest ride I’ve ever seen —I wouldn’t even get on it. (Bawk-bawk!) The hubs stumbled off it like the walking wounded shouting, “Never again!” like Costanza. And oldest, feeling loud and proud for turning seven the night before the big trip, handled the rides like a pro and told me, “Don’t worry, mom. I’ll hold your hand on the rides because we all know you’re chicken.”

Aww. The shaking must have given it away. Damn.

I’ll spare you all the deets of my trip/Disney education and share just one of the many funny things that happened. I’m in Epcot at Canada buying a beer (eh?) and seven year old is standing right next to me. I’m chatting with my friendly neighbor to the north as I shell out ten smackers for the fun maple leaf souvenir cup (Yes, I am a 12 year old deep down), and I look over and seven year old is sitting on a split rail fence, teetering, and about to fall backwards. I exclaim, “Hey! Get down before you fall!” I could picture the headline in the paper, “7 year old plunges off fence at Epcot while drunken soccer mommy swills Labatt’s Blue nearby”.

It would have been a two foot drop into some Canadian hedges. And I was not drunk! But still. You know how other writers twist things!

But the funniest part was the Canadian bar keep quipping, “Oh don’t worry—-if you fall and get hurt in Canada we have free healthcare!”

Excellent point! I felt better. I needed that $50 urgent care co-pay for my draft beers!

Now who wants to loan me $10 bucks for a box of wine? Because while there truly is no place like home like Dorothy said,  re-entry? Well, it’s difficult in a foot of snow in flip flops. (Now I remember why I usually spend school vaca week at Tarjay!)