Easy

In the USA Today/CNN/ 24/7 generation of quick access to blips and bites on every topic known to mankind, I'm a poster child.

I like headlines and summaries more than long stories.
I like sentences more than paragraphs.

I should not admit to this, claiming to be a writer (of sorts). But alas, it's the truth.

My new vice? Yahoo's The 9 list. My daily fix of useless information, and it only takes a few moments.

P.S. Breaking news: Lance Bass is gay. Did anyone, ever, question this?

Exodus

At times like these, I simply can't keep up with the world.

Whether it's Bush sending more troops to Iraq, the ongoing problems in Israel and Lebanon, or the fact that Ann Coulter is apparently taking over the free world--I just have too many emotions getting fired up at once to tackle any of them individually.

There's the anti-semitism in France, and the anti-talent on the airwaves known as Paris.

There's nothing but reality TV on all summer long (thank you God, for Entourage), and there's mushrooms growing in my backyard because of all of the rain.

It's enough to make a person want to curl up with a really meatless paperback and just escape all the insanity with a nap. In my next life, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Beach Blanket Bingo

Seven days seems like a long time when you're ripe with anticipation for a beach vacation. But in reality, the progression from "Hey, it's only Tuesday! We have so much more time here!" to "Crap, we have to pack tonight and we never went to the water park or had that funnel cake or bought that cute t-shirt or went running every day..." is lightening fast.

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware is a great escape, nonetheless. I love the mix of aging gay couples and family-friendly attractions. I love the beach itself, though the jellyfish were rampant. And I love the entire atmosphere of relaxation. I did not check e-mail once the entire time. An absolute record-breaker.

My oldest daughter hated the sand in her bathing suit and changed into clean undies and a cover-up within 10 minutes every day, which is exactly how I was growing up. Truth be told, I still can't stand the "unknown" underfoot and I really don't go deeper into the water than I have to in order to cool off. I much prefer to sunbathe, read a book and absentmindedly trickle my toe in the cool sand...ahh, it seems so, so long ago.

Here's a brief recap:
* FUN: little girls who travel better than most adults I know. Their mommy must have raised them well. NOT FUN: the beach-block condo that cost a fortune and seemed like a palace more than a decade ago when last rented...but apparently hasn't seen a good mop or fresh coat of paint since.

* FUN: little girls on rides at Jolly Roger designed specifically for their age so their mommy doesn't panic when they get buckled in. NOT FUN: teacups. I should have learned my lesson when I ended up in Disneyland's infirmary in 1986. They still make me want to hurl.

* FUN: family that takes me out and serves me lots of white wine so we can properly enjoy karaoke with gender-ambiguous patrons belting out "I Will Survive". NOT FUN: lots of white wine that does indeed make me hurl. I so can't drink.

* FUN: renting surrey bikes built for five and shooshing all over the boardwalk. NOT FUN: hills.

* FUN: forgetting about work, literally, for hours on end. NOT FUN: eight gazillion messages taunting me the moment I come home.

All in all, a great time.

Daddy's Little Girl

My husband has been having a passionate love affair for the past six years. Her name is Julia. I know this because I gave birth to her and had the privilege to choose her name, which is little consolation. Of course it gives me great pleasure to see the connection they have, and to witness the spontaneous, mutual laughter they enjoy with each other.

But it's bothersome nonetheless to realize that I will never, ever elicit the same look in her eye that she gets when she looks at her daddy.

He, to her, is everything good, safe and FUN in this world. He is the indulger, the pacifier, the clown. He is the ever-ready playmate long after I have tuckered out. He is the infallible protector from all things crawly. And he, above all else, is her first love.

There will be change---there will be some disappointment when she is older; when he is absent from the recitals or heartbreaks or Mean Girls dramas that I most certainly will be there for. She will undoubtedly find fault in the way he treats me when she begins to blossom into her own woman and create her own expectations about men. And she will be frustrated with his inevitable machismo when it rears its ugly head in the most socially inappropriate situations ("But EVERYONE is going to be there, Daddy! I have to go!?").

The change will be incremental, but never lasting. It will be subtle, and secondary. It will affect their relationship, but never, ever dilute its strength. In the end (across the dorm quad and down the aisle and, God help me, around the grandkids), the bond will be as absolute and true as it was that first day in the hospital when she stubbornly refused to nurse from my breast, yet took the bottle from Daddy's hand as though it were he, not I, who was created for just that purpose.

I pray the bond will remain as strong as it is today for the rest of their days together on this planet. As for me, I plan to derive my own special joy, watching it from the sidelines I've been relegated to, for at least that long.