So I'm pretty sure the last time I saw my cousin, Paul, I was 4 and dancing on the feet of our Uncle Rock. (Yes, that's an actual name.) Then there was an awkward moment with his aunt (my 2nd cousin) who tried to gave me his email address in high school when I was struggling with math. I really don't know much about the man but yesterday at a family function my mother decided to embarrass me by telling every one that I, too, am a writer but that the only story I've ever let her read was one I wrote back in the 4th grade about my grandmother's cats as Private Detectives Peanuts and Popcorn. It was a murder mystery with a talking parrot as the key piece of evidence that helped solve the case. I've been buying my mother Lehane books and Raymond Chandler books this past year and she's taken to none of them. This morning she begged me to get up early and grab a copy of the Globe with a story about Paul in it. Now she wants me to go on a search with her to buy his books. "Don't order them online," she says. "If we make a store order them, maybe the store will catch on and order more." That's my mom, the thinker.
Kill me. Somebody please kill me.
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