As my poor, beleaguered husband would be only too happy to tell you, I tend to get a little obsessive about things. I glom onto an idea or a plan, and I eat, drink and sleep nothing else (with the possible exception of a nice martini, extra dry with a twist, please and thank you very much) for weeks on end. I talk to him about nothing else until he begins to work progressively longer days. Then weekends. Then it's over, when I crash and burn and take to my bed. Figuratively, but still...

Take this now miserable election. In the runnup to Super Tuesday, which p.s. Wolf Blitzer was not even a little super but really closer to boring as hell, and in the days following, it was all I talked about. Every night when Jim came home from work I was completely wired with all the latest developments -- which candidate had what for breakfast, which candidates were wearing what, which candidate said what about Britney Spears -- you know, issue-oriented stuff. He would barely get in the door before he'd hear something like, "And here's how I know Mrs. Huckabee used to be a man.."

Every now and again I bring up a home renovation. Not a new bathroom, not a sliding door in the kitchen. I mean a renovation of our entire home. Top to bottom. Rebuilding. Since Jim wants this as much as I do, and since we have planned it for every home we have ever owned (four in ten years, but never again, I tell you), he humors me for awhile. He knows we will get to it one day (or his next wife will love his next home), but this is not the time. However, he also knows when I need to obsess. So he keeps his mouth closed when he comes home and I have drawn up an entire set of plans with a crayon on pink construction paper. When I buy no groceries for two weeks and instead spend the money on seven issues of the latest home magazines, he smiles and makes eggs for dinner again. When I make yet another appointment with the builder that has been to our house four times and has yet to see a dime from us, he calmly sits me down and reminds me that the mortgage officer at our bank has issued a restraining order against me. That usually sets me right.

These days I am on to planning our vacation for next winter. We live in New England and our snow has barely melted, but already I am mentally in next March, packing my bags for some yet to be determined tropical locale. You would think that, after spending the winter inside with two kids, we would be delighted to go anywhere, but we (ok, mostly me) are finding that our standards have somehow gotten ridiculously high (not my standards, actually. His standards, really. I am happy to go anywhere that someone else will make my bed. Anywhere.)

So we decided on an inclusive somewhere in the Caribbean. But somewhere that's easy to get to. One flight, no connections. And not too big. With not too many people. But enough people that our kids can meet other kids. But kids that speak mostly English. But not too many Americans (because you know how they can get on vacation, and I'm one of them and even I know it). With two bedrooms. Queen bed in one and two twins in the other. Nicely decorated. But not too fancy, in case we break something. But nice. On the beach. Not near it. ON it. With kids activities. But the right kind of activities. Crafts, not corny talent shows.

Can you imagine the stress that this puts me under?

Plus, how do people afford these trips? Here's my choice: Feed my children for one year or take them to Club Med for one week. Help me decide, won't you?