Florida? LA? The Greenbrier? New Orleans?

I'm trying to figure out where we should go for spring break. I was thinking of heading to New England to visit our families, but the snow and cold have me craving a warmer climate.

But here's the complicating factor. Most warm places assume you want to play golf or tennis or go to the beach or something. And mostly we're such geeks that the finer points of these delights are lost on us.

In former times we avoided golf and beaches by heading to Disney World, but the finer points of waiting in line are lost on me, if not on my daughter.

So, Los Angeles? We like it and have had a great time there. But we were there in 2008. Would it be better to go someplace different? And is LA too close to Disneyland?

Gasparilla Island? Sarasota? Too beachy.

The Greenbrier? Although I would love to bask in its over-the-top Dorothy Draper interiors, I'm a bit worried that going to one of these huge resorts would set our geekiness in sharp relief. I can totally see me playing iPhone games when I'm supposed to be working on my backhand.

Which leaves me with New Orleans. Pros: great food; lots of history; really different from Chicago; no golf or beaches.

What do you think?

Questions, I need questions

OK, first of all, here's a news update, since it's been so long since I actually sat and typed an actual blog post: I'm in New Hampshire for spring break. And before I left Chicago I was up to my earlobes in volunteer work--attending bored meetings, making phone calls, trying to find a sucker to be next year's hospitality chair--the usual crap.

Although I have to admit that my overseeing of eighth grade musical rehearsals has been substantially cut back, possibly as a result of my calling one of the kids a douche bag.

Which leaves me wondering whether that's a one-size-fits-all solution to MY ENTIRE LIFE. I mean, I'm sure the possibility that I might call their white-haired old ladies "douche bags" would sharply decrease the number of jobs The National Society of the Colonial Dames in the State of Illinois might ask me to do.

It's a thought.

Anyway, on Tuesday I've got to put up a BlogHer Beauty Hacks post, and so far, the only idea I've had is that of visiting the Cosmetic Center store in the outlets in Kittery, Maine, and checking out what's available. But the store might have closed, or they might not have anything except a bunch of those sparkly little compacts Estee Lauder produces every year at Christmas time. Full of solid perfume in signature Estee Lauder scents. You know, Youth-Dew, or Beautiful. And reminding me of a cross between a Jay Strongwater bibelot and a Walgreen's perfume counter. Which would only be of interest to crazed collectors.

Not what I want to write about.

So I would be really thrilled if you'd ask me a few questions, particularly about makeup and skin care. It would help prime the pump. I am not nearly as sure-handed with fashion questions--take those to blackbird--but I know my way around a makeup counter like you wouldn't believe.

N. B. I did fulfill my contractual obligation to put up my usual Friday Mamarazzi post, and I would be so grateful if you'd check it out and let me know whether I'm off-base in claiming that Kelly Osbourne is deserving of our heart-felt devotion. I mean, is she really awesome, or is she mostly notable for having survived thus far, given her parentage?

Live blogging from Orlando airport. Again.

You know, I'm sort of a Pollyanna type, so my first reaction to dealing with adversity is to find the bright side.

Now the dark side of my situation is that lately, I've been spending an unbelievable amount of time in airports. Even though hanging around in airports is not my idea of Spring Break Bliss.

On the other hand, hanging around the Orlando airport is affording me the opportunity to drink Cafe con Leche and eat quesitos. Which is nice. And with luck, the fat and sugar calories will decide that what happens in the airport stays in the airport.

Although even the Pollyanna in me suspects that those calories are going to climb onto my ass and ride back to Chicago with me.

If you're reading this, you should know this:

I'm not. My internet access is all but non-existent.

So I'll have to save the thrilling tale of our journey to Walt Disney World for one of those long winter evenings, as this is my first internet access since Wednesday, and I doubt I'll have much time for composing witty blog entries while on board a cruise ship.

BUT you need to know two things:

I have been hanging around with the Jokes.

And I'm staying in Tuvalu.

Not to mention how hard they must be to parallel park

When I drive to Florida I see a lot of things I don't see in Chicago. Too many to list, so I'll just talk about one of them, OK? Recreational Vehicles, otherwise known as RVs.

You see a ton of these bad boys on the highway--enough to wonder whether there are fads in RV design, the way there are with automobiles and trucks and such. I mean, it stands to reason, right? Except that I wouldn't be able to tell a brand-spanking new RV from one that was 25 years old, unless the old one was all rusted out.

Yes, the sight of these behemoths fills the mind with many questions. Like: how many miles to the gallon can they possibly get? I'm betting seven or less. And: when someone else is driving the RV, can you just sit around normally inside it, or does it get really bumpy and unsafe, so you have to wear seat belts? And: do they have bathrooms? But the big question is: Where the hell do you keep them when you're not driving them?

Because I've heard there are people who camp out in Wal*Mart parking lots, but these people are already on the road. What I want to know is where do you keep them when you're at home? I mean, I can barely fit a minivan down my driveway. Where the hell would I put an RV?

Does everyone who has an RV live on a farm or something? No, wait a minute--that doesn't make sense, either. Farmers never get to go anywhere. They have to stay on the farm so they can milk the cows and chickens and stuff.

So basically, who buys these things? No one I know. So I'll probably never find the answer to any of these burning questions.

Still--and I'm sorry to report this, but it's the truth--pondering these and other road-trip inspired mysteries (which is better--Waffle House or Huddle House?) really makes me feel alive.

Special -ed

I'm absolutely starving and have to go cook dinner, but I thought I'd meander on for a little bit about this thing I noticed several times on my way to and from Florida.

You see, there are quite a [SEE ROCK CITY] number of billboards [SEE ROCK CITY] to be seen on a drive [SEE ROCK CITY] of that length, so I thought I'd try to point [SEE ROCK CITY] out a little solecism that is frankly [SEE ROCK CITY] driving me crazy.

It's this. When you use a compound like "iced tea" or "old-fashioned," you don't leave off the final "ed." It's not "ice tea" or "old fashion." Please do not paint a phrase like "Enjoy our old fashion country cooking!" in red letters three feet high on a yellow background and expect me, the erstwhile English major and queen of punctuation (in case you hadn't noticed) to continue driving as if nothing had happened.

You really do not want me driving 80 miles an hour down your road in the mental state produced by such flagrant grammatical errors. I can not answer for my behavior when I see such vivid proof that the barbarians finally really are at the gate.

Stuckey's--this means YOU.

Super Size Us: The Prelude

So we just got back from Walt Disney World. This involved driving a rented minivan from Florida to Illinois. I must say, I'm feeling pretty smug right now. This is not something designed for pussies to do, no sir. I feel all macho 'n' shit.

On first day, we drove through appalling traffic (the entire state of Georgia is pretty much one big parking lot--also it poured rain a lot of the time) to Chattanooga, Tennessee. During the second day, we made it all the way back to the Frozen Nawth, a/k/a Chicago. Home of Jay's Potato Chips and not a Goo Goo Cluster or sack of White Lily flour to be found.

Not surprisingly, I spent a lot of time driving (when I wasn't watching DVDs with my kids or playing Tetris on my huzbin's Palm or camped out in the way-back seat reading P.G. Wodehouse short stories). Driving brings out my contemplative side (when it isn't turning me livid with road rage.) Not surprisingly, during two days of driving, I thought many deep, meaningful thoughts. Which I will be happy to share eventually.

But right now I have to get used to Central Standard Time before it changes to Central Daylight Savings or whatever they call it. All I know is that I expect to be suffering from time-change whiplash any second now. Plus I truly need to finish drinking this glass of wine so that I can bask in the sensation of knowing that if I want a refill, there's a bunch more of it downstairs in the refrigerator of my very own kitchen. It's not all that great, so I probably won't bother to get any, but just knowing it's there gives me a warm glow.

Home ... good.

I know that my Spring Break liveth

Here in the frozen north, we were greeted this morning by the sight of fine fat flakes of snow tumbling softly through the leaden gray sky to land gently on the sodden ground, where they either melted or chose to accumulate in small, slushy mounds, according to their whim.*

This is apparently the way people in these parts know to go out into the garden and hide Easter eggs. Not me, though. I know better. This is no time to hide Easter eggs. Unless you want to get frostbite.

Yes, Spring Break has finally arrived! I know this because it's almost Easter and it's 35 degrees.

That means it's time to head to the AAA office and pick up new, updated trip books about every state between Illinois and Florida. (This includes Indiana. Even though That Stud Muffin I Married grew up there. And even though, because of this, I've spent way more than enough time in Indiana. He and I realize that there is nothing to see in Indiana except Steak and Shakes, cornfields, a city with a race track, and a college town. But one must be fair. And, apparently, obsessive when it comes to accumulating an assload of maps and AAA guide books. So we get the Indiana book.)

We get all these books in order to read about all the sights of extreme historical and cultural interest that we will completely ignore while we barrel down the highway on our annual Spring Break trip to Walt Disney World.

It goes like this: we get up at 5:00 a.m. on Good Friday, bundle the kids into the rented minivan, and start driving. The scenery starts to perk up in southern Indiana, and from there on, Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia are pretty damned gorgeous. Also kind of scary because of the BIG ASS trucks on the road, not to mention many, many tourists with license plates from Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan, and Minnesota, not to mention HUGE signs advertising XXX porn video places. Thank you very much for keeping the truck drivers of America happy in what I shall chose to call their "down time," but I hope and pray we make it past all those billboards without having to take a single question from the offspring. Did you hear me? NOT ONE.

We spend the night in Atlanta, and the next day, after tucking in heartily to the free hotel breakfast, we take off for Florida. Lower Georgia and Upper Florida are very weird indeed,which is all to the good, and I start to get all giddy and happy when I see signs about oranges and alligators and such.

Then we peel ourselves out the car at the Polynesian Resort at Walt Disney. And start to have big fun, beginning with a glass of wine that is about [_____THIS BIG_____].

So anyway, now I've got to get cracking with the packing.

*Yes, I was an English major. So what.