Desperate Times (Call for Desperate Measures)

It started, as these things often do, with the desperation born of too many 42-degrees-and-rainy days stuck inside, wondering when, WHEN spring would ever come.

It started, actually, when my parents booked a condo for themselves for a few weeks in Florida and casually, generously said, "Come down if you want!"  No expectations, no guilt, no badgering.  Just an invitation to share their space, if we wanted.

It started with a weekly travel deals newsletter landing in my in-box on a rainy Wednesday night.  Jason was reading next to me in bed, half-asleep already.  I elbowed him.  "Look," I said.

"Go," he said.  He'll stay here, working, catching up, squeezing in some mountain-biking and jaunting off every night to sing in the seasonal Easter choir, good Catholic boy that he is.

I called my parents at 11:00 p.m.  They were wide awake, like I knew they would be.  They were ecstatic.  I bought the tickets.

I told the girls this morning.  They squealed. "Tomorrow!" I said.  We packed tank tops and sunscreen.

It's 37 degrees here right now.  Last night a thunder-sleet bolt hit a tree in the front yard of a house a few blocks away and blew the front door right off the house.

It's going to be 89 degrees there.

I think it was a good call.