Late next week, just when I'll have my stride with a steady blog rhythm, I'll be packing my bags for a 5-day trip to Cancun. It's a business trip with Brian's company, which kindly includes the wives. We've dutifully stashed aside some money each week to make it possible. I confess, though, to feeling a bit so-so about this trip.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love vacations. Well, kinda. I read a delightful blog not too long ago that spoke about comfort zones and how sometimes it's difficult to break away. Anyway, the general consensus was that once we break away from our comfort zone, we are glad for it - the change of routine, perhaps new adventure, simply inhaling fresh air. I know this will happen for me once I get to Cancun.

Besides, I should be doing cartwheels to have the opportunity to get away from the brutal winter we are experiencing in Southern California. Goodness gracious, temperatures have even dipped to the low 40s several miles from my house. I tell ya, it's been horrific. I've even had to wear long pants a few times.

My trepidation about Cancun revolves around the extravagant brochure we received from the resort where we'll be staying. I'll leave our destination nameless for fear of retribution - like spiking my drink and running me through a wood chipper.

The hotel is magnificent, a small city with every amenity you can imagine. Well, there's the first hiccup. Brian and I prefer boutique hotels and better yet, B & Bs. We like cozy, feeling at home away from home, but having someone else cook and make the beds.

The suites would make a normal person drool, and I did, in fact, become slack-jawed. I mean, really, I could do a half gainer into the Jacuzzi tub, if I was so inclined. But, I have a question. What the hell's the deal with rose petals? I swear to you, if an attendant murders even one rose on our behalf and tosses its petals on the bed, I will get hysterical. And I don't mean ha-ha hysterical. Think about it. What do people find romantic about murdered roses and risking the chance of waking up the next morning with wilted petals wedged in their hinny crack, or even worse in their hoo-hoo? Beats me.

Please, don't get me wrong, I realize a bed strewn with rose petals has some vague connection with romance and I love to be romanced. And I can't remember the last time, if ever, I heard a woman whine, "I wish he’d back off with the romance crapola." It's just that I prefer to give my roses a fighting chance in a vase with water.

The other issue has to do with the hotel's all-inclusive package. Everything is included - all booze and an obscene amount of food showcased with ice sculptures. Even our suite's honor bar is open season. Anything guests can wrap their lips around is included in the rates.

Now, call me a worrywart, but I have a premonition that I might experience some kick-ass moments on this trip. I confess I like a cocktail or two each night, but will I have the discipline to stop at that? Jesus, Joseph and Mary, the booze is FREE! Well, sort of. Remember, we saved each week in order to abuse ourselves.

I don't know, but I find the all-inclusive policy with food and booze a little distasteful. I'm going to literally have a knot in my gut when I witness the food that's wasted. It's like an all-you-can-eat buffet when gluttony on all levels becomes rampant, because people have no sense when it comes to anything with no boundaries.

Speaking of gluttony and no boundaries – I'm packing a case of K-Y.