Snow and I have a love/hate relationship.  I used to love it … but now I hate it and it hates me.   

Growing up in Iowa, I was not fazed by blizzards and ice storms.  I dressed like Nanuck of the North and was undaunted by sub-arctic temperatures.  That was then.  And this is now.  Since moving three hours south to Kansas City, the slightest temperature swing sends me in to complete fits.  I despise even the slightest dusting of snow on the ground.  And I find myself driving like an 82 year-old grandmother when there’s a threat of sleet. 

Good thing too.  Today, while I was gently tap, tap, tapping on my brakes all the way to work … cars were careening out of control in front of me.  Miraculously, I made it to work unscathed.  In the span of four minutes, I saw a car smash in to a guard rail and another veer off an embankment.  I, meanwhile, was driving so slowly it was as if I was going in reverse.  Being cautious probably saved my hide … as my mom would deftly point out. 

Since I just came back from sunny Florida, I have felt frozen solid from the minute I got off the plane.  (Mainly because I did not pack a coat … my bad.)  I spent 45 minutes sitting as close my fireplace as possible (without actually bursting in to flames) in order  to warm up.   

Take a quick inventory of my house … and you will find ten or fifteen fleece blankets scattered around.  They are there to wrap yourself up in.  Lord knows I would HATE to get a chill.  Chills cause the vapors.  And vapors can kill.  (When I turned in to a nursing home resident … I’ll never know.) 

Now, I’m forced to return to the Hinterlands to visit my parents for the holidays.  They haven’t left the house once since the first frost.  They totally have the right idea.  They keep the house so freakin’ warm, it causes the dog to pant.  My dad wears not one, but TWO sets of pajamas to bed each night.  And my mom is wrapped head to toe in an oversized full-length terry cloth robe … over her sweatsuit, of course. 

Forget Aspen.  Forget Colorado.  And screw Alaska.  I’m never going skiing, sledding or snowmobile riding again.  Ever.  I’ll just stay in a nearby lodge and drink hot toddys all night.  Those things will warm you from the inside out. 

Hawaii cannot get here soon enough.

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I have wanted to go to Hawaii ever since I saw “The Brady Bunch” episode where Greg nearly died while surfing.  And while I’m not hoping for a Hawaii-curse … I am hoping for two weeks of mindless relaxation in early January. 

I take my vacations very seriously.  I try to maximize as much sloth as possible.  Unfortunately, I typically travel with my best friend Eric … who plans each day down to the minute.  He’s like Hitler – Your Cruise Director.  We’ve nearly killed each other on several trips because he’s athletic and motivated.  His idea of a good time is to wake up at 6am to go hiking or kayaking.  My idea of a good time is getting up at the crack of noon to stumble down to a pool chair where I’m fanned with palm fronds and leisurely fed grapes.  And there had better be an umbrella drink in my hand at all times. 

He’s Sporty Spice.  I’m Get-The-Hell-Away-From-Me-I’m-Trying-To-Nap Spice.  

Because I travel so much for a living, I tend to be a bit extravagant when I actually do take vacations.  For instance … I’m staying in a 7-star Marriott resort.  (And you thought there were only 5-star hotels – shame on you.)  I booked a sweet suite with a killer balcony where I can prop my feet up, read a book and stay out of the sun. 

Eric has free reign over four days of our vacation … which will inevitably entail cliff diving, volcano exploration, shark hunting and multiple daily visits to Pearl Harbor.  The other four days will be a veritable orgy of spa treatments, fine cuisine, massages and napping.  

Hawaii has a lot of culture to soak in – which is fine – as long as culture is brought TO me.  If the Marriott is throwing a luau – I’m SO there.  If I have to get off of the plush beach chair and go somewhere – forget it.  

And if I’ve heard one person tell me how expensive Hawaii is … I’ve heard it from a dozen.  I’ve been saving pennies since April so I would have enough $BLING$ to spend money with wild abandon and not feel guilty.  Good thing too … the Marriott serves all their foo-foo drinks in frozen pineapples.  At $18 a pop.  I plan on having six of ‘em my first night. 

So here’s to my upcoming adventure of fun and merriment.  And here’s to me not drowning Eric during snorkeling practice.  His day.  Not mine.

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