I only just realized the runaway bride shares our last name--I get all my news from blogs, TDS, and the occasional bit of NPR these days. Which means she's probably a very distant cousin (to DH and Annabel, anyway)--distant because we've never heard of her and have no ties to a Georgia branch of the family.

I was wondering about that when I read the story, Susan.

You must be under tremendous stress to do something like that.

I've not watched any of the coverage, but that was my first reaction. I don't actually know if she is a total bitch bridezilla, or a stressed out scared beyond nervous breakdown woman. Of course what she did to her family and community is horrible, but I still feel very sorry for her.

Now if I get a chance to read anything about this, or watch the television coverage I may start hating her, but right now I feel for her.

Not reading the farm link. It sounds very upsetting.

Working hard here, blah.

It causes everyone who cares about them fear and sorrow and anxiety. They go to seek their own peace, while robbing all who are close to them of theirs. One can understand the behavior, one can forgive it, but it doesn't change the fact that it's deepy hurtful.

Yes, this.

I know my impatience with actions like the fake kidnapping is heightened by two factors: my reaction to the perpetual expectation of me (as older sister) to excuse behaviour in others that I'm not to excuse in myself, nor expect to be excused for (and even the exhortation to not be me, so that other people can be themselves), and of having had the luxury to never have found myself in such a twisty position (with the result that I doubt they happen that often).

Well, I've tackled my backlog of voicemail. Billing is next. I think I'll save my e-mail backlog for if I get bored to the point of insanity.

One of my former roommates pulled a milder form of that sort of disappearance as a practical joke on me and our other (sane) roommate. He had his ex-girlfriend call us one evening when he and a friend were supposed to be visiting her, and tell us they'd never showed up, were hours late, and that she was really worried. The "joke" fell apart when we called his mom to find out if he'd stopped there unexpectedly, and he called us back—angry that we'd worried her unnecessarily—just before we were going to get the highway patrol involved.

Sane roommate had to talk me down from moving him out of the apartment in absentia. And might not have been able to do so if a 400 lb. waterbed hadn't been involved.

I think I've finally found a way to rearrange my furniture to maximize space and fit in the new loveseat.

I need extension cords and a strong boy.

I need extension cords and a strong boy.

Don't we all.

With the right extension cords, you can TRAP the strong boy.

(Ignoring the plaintive cries and thumping from the closet.)