Really, seriously, lakes aren't the beach. Lakes don't have waves. Lakes are for canoeing. That's getting dangerously close to camping, in my opinion. A beach trip needs waves, a boardwalk, a photo booth, and a really expensive fancy restaurant that you can go into in a wet bathing suit.
2. Year round beach living: Heaven...or the Other Place?
I've always thought about it....you know, a place where you could get around town with an unlocked coaster bike, a place to write my novel on an old kitchen table on a screen porch stroll the dunes in a big Irish sweater. But honestly, I think I'd die of boredom. Or worse, take on some ill-considered business venture - opening a wine bar, a catering company, maybe a boutique. That way lies madness, and probably bankruptcy. Living in a major metropolis has ruined me for everyplace else, I think.
3. Any beach plans for this summer?
All my summer plans are up in the air.
4. Best beach memory ever?
Here's an excerpt from my mommyblog -July 28, 2008
.....And, of course, it was emotional for me, seeing Ian take to it the way he did, and seeing Eric be such a dad. It made me think about how the beach has kind of 'been there for me', from babyhood through college and singlehood and wife-hood, and now with a beach baby of our own.5. Fantasy beach trip?
It's like a flipbook of snapshots - there's me and mom in matching sundresses at Avalon, there's dad throwing Sandy over the waves; there's me in my red white and blue racing suit in 1972; there's my mom after the stroke; me and Paul and Chuck; me and Dorney and Chuck and Larry..there are all the pictures of me that Eric has taken, holding up a rubber frog at Funland, shading my eyes by the jetty. There are even pictures from our pregnant trip, 2 years ago, when it rained the whole time and never got about 70. I'm obviously lost - huge, uncomfortable, already tired of waiting but mentally paralyzed, completely unable to think about what I'm waiting for. The rain pounded the dunes, and I stood out in it, shooting video of the whipping grass.
And now Ian, running in and out like a sandpiper, dropping handfuls of sand after the receding wave, showing the ocean who's boss.
One that is open-ended?
One with a babysitter in tow?