I think I am, in fact, a crazy person.

Sooooo, I read the blogs. We all do, right? And there is this sort of intimacy thing that happens when you read someone's life. You start to feel like you know them a little better than you actually do. You know things about them and you respond to them...

Like, I write things here that I don't necessarily share with people who aren't in my living room drinking wine in their pajamas. You know?

Um. Yes, I know you know. Want a glass of wine?

So I was in my favorite bookstore of all times and I was talking to my favorite bookstore owner of all time and I said, "Oh, my friend Laurie is publishing a book. You should totally stock it." And she said, "Laurie what?"

And I blushed.

Then I mumbled, "Laurie-who-writes-a-blog-called-Crazy-Aunt-Purl." She looked at me like I had six heads.

I suddenly realized two very important things:
1) People who don't read blogs just don't get it. At all. And won't get it until they Google something random like "milk duds" and come across the funniest blog entry ever about choking on a milk dud.
And
2) Laurie and I are not friends. In any sense of the word. Once I found her blog I read it for HOURS at a time, trying to catch up... I was late to this whole blog experience and I started reading her blog about a year ago. But reading her blog does not mean I know her, and it really does not mean that we are friends. Even though she looks a lot like my cousin Faith and she has the same "blurt crazy things out in public when you're nervous thing" that I do.

Seriously? Laurie is one of my favorite people ever.

See, I am taking this blog-reading thing way too seriously.

In other news, I am ready to scream at my family in eight or nine different languages. What I am doing instead is hiding and gritting my teeth when they find me. It's not their fault that I am a crazy person who is growing increasingly frustrated by their presence. My husband needs to get a job and my child needs to stop schlumping around my house complaining about how "there is nothing to do."

Whatever.

I am a parent who believes in natural consequences. She begged and pleaded not to go to any kind of camp this summer. She pleaded with me and swore up and down that all she wanted to do is read and draw and write in her journal and that she could do none of those things in any camp. I said, "You'll be bored." She said, "I want to be bored! I am really tired of the stupid camp stuff and I just want some time alone."
So I gave it to her.

Now that it's too late to go to camp? She's bored. Not my problem.

Ok, that's not entirely true... it sort of is my problem, but she is not at all going to like my solution. Let's just say it involves the fact that I would love to have an assistant at work who could go through old tapes and files and reorganize my bookshelves now that we are no longer using DAT tapes. Hmmmmm. And also? My house needs to be cleaned. She's going to her dad's house on Friday for a week and when she gets back we're going to throw some structure down in this house.

Bored my ass.