Husband: (talking over dinner) "...so that meeting lasted for-freaking-ever, and when I finally got out, Matt was already gone. And I couldn't even get to half the crap I wanted to." (shovels forkful of meatball into his mouth) "So what about you?"

Me: "Let's see. Today, I set up some book events, edited chapter eleven. Oh, and Emily had a miscarriage. It was so sad."

Husband: "Who's Emily?"

I can't...It's too...This is so embarrassing.

Emily is a woman I DON'T EVEN KNOW. And yet, she's dinner table conversation at my house. I know more about what's going on in her life than members of my own family's. I am fascinated by her. I hang on to her every word. In short, I read her blog.

Every. Single. Day. I look forward to it. I wonder about it. I think about it. I may need some sort of professional help.

I read about her haircuts and her birthday parties and her home improvement projects. And you really have to ask yourself, why do I give a rat's patootie about this woman's curling iron collection? And the answer is: BECAUSE SHE'S ME.

No really, go with me on this.

We both went to journalism school. We both got married around the same time. We're both the same age. We both worked as copy editors. (My stint was pretty brief.) We're both neat freaks. We're both runners. Except, and this is the part that fascinates me, I put everything on hold to be a writer, and she wants to be a writer but put everything on hold to be a mom. She went left, and I went right.

It's as if I made my choice, but still have the opportunity to see what might have happened in some crazy, parallel universe kind of way. Internet as crystal ball.

Also internet as pipeline into psychiatric disorder because when you think about it, I'm basically conducting a friendship with a woman who DOESN'T KNOW I EXIST. I'm pretty sure there's something about that in the psychiatric diagnostic manual...

So please, let's just keep this little bit of crazy between us.

Next blog post: Me at the Regent Beverly Wilshire with Pia Zadora - a true story