Every night my husband and I watch Anderson Cooper, with hands-on footage of the oil coating the marshes in Plaquemines Parish. The oil is spreading. It's off the coast of Pensacola, Fla., now, four weeks before we're scheduled to take a houseful of 17-year-olds to the beach.
If you've been reading here a while, you know about my ongoing love affair with my beach vacations. I live for them. I wouldn't trade them for all the money in the world. In fact, if I had all the money in the world, I'd just upgrade to international beaches. For years, I've said that when I go, put my ashes in a Coppertone bottle and bury me in the sand at Destin.
Childhood memories and roots aside, the Gulf is where our family celebrates summer every year.
I don't mean to make this about me. It's just that when I start thinking about what's happening to the fishermen, to the food chain, to the way of life, I get so damn angry.
Today, 37 percent of the Gulf of Mexico has been closed to fishing. That's closing in on HALF OF THE GULF.
I don't understand how this is happening and NOBODY IS DOING ANYTHING.
I don't understand how the CEO of BP can continually make the insulting and offensive statements that he has and STILL HAVE A JOB.
I don't understand why the government hasn't stepped in to DO SOMETHING.
I don't understand why we can't clean up the oil AND try to stop the gushing at the same time.
I don't understand why the rest of the country hasn't noticed that we seem, as a nation, completely unable to handle a large-scale emergency.
I don't understand why we're not using hay and hair booms and Kevin Costner's machine and any and everything we can get our hands on to remove the oil from the Gulf.
And when I think about all these things, I become so infuriated I feel like the top of my head is going to blow off.
So I just think about my beach vacay and my beloved Destin. And I hope it can be saved.